


A Fire in Your Memory (Myrna)

by britchick101 (somebodyswatson)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 19:11:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somebodyswatson/pseuds/britchick101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty isn't evil, not really, his actions are entirely justified. He doesn't care how accidental it was, Sherlock killed the only person who mattered to Jim, and Jim fully intends to make him pay. He owes it to her. He'll burn Sherlock's heart and watch him fall. Interwoven into the events of the pool scene and Series 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Pool

**Author's Note:**

> This started as something to tide me over until series 2 (yes, that's right, series 2) and slowly morphed from 3 chapters, to 5 chapters, to the monster it now is. Also on ffn.net but slightly edited and updated.  
> Many many thanks to Shiny Sherlock for more than I can possibly list.
> 
> I don't own the characters or the situations they find themselves in any more than I own the Eiffel Tower. Apart from Myrna, I'm pretty sure I invented her.

"Kill you? Um, no. Don't be _obvious_. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway, someday. I don't want to rush it though. I'm saving it up for something special. No no no no no, if you don't stop prying... I'll _burn_ you."

Sherlock's heart jumped. It happened whenever someone mentioned fire. His mind flashed back to that day, the flames, and his own screams that she was inside. Nobody had listened to him, not until it was discovered that Myrna had never arrived at school… He forced his face to remain impassive. Allowing his enemy to see him react would give away his weakness.

"I will burn... the _heart_ out of you."

He knew. Moriarty already knew. It wasn't exactly private information; any idiot with internet access could find information on the death of Myrna Holmes and the explosion that killed her. It was the shock factor that her 8 year old brother was to blame that made it headline news. Even though he protested over and over again that he hadn't meant to hurt anyone, he had told his sister not to get in the car, and that he had simply been conducting an experiment on fuel combustion, his apparent lack of emotion had caused the media to brand him 'heartless'.

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one" he responded. But it was too late. Images of Myrna now filled his brain, clouding his mind and his judgement.

_He sat at the window eagerly watching the car on the front driveway, stopwatch in his hand. If his calculations were correct then the car would blow up in exactly 2 minutes._

_"There they are! I've been looking for those!" Myrna had entered the room without his noticing, he had been gazing so intently at the car. She picked up the car keys and smiled at Sherlock's shocked face. "There are a few things missing from my bag, they must have fallen out in the car yesterday."_

_She smiled at him. It was a beautiful smile, but then everything about his 17 year old sister was beautiful. She was his favourite person in the world; he would do anything for her. He had to stop her going in the car, just stall her for 1 and a half minutes. He ran over to her and wrapped his arms around her._

_"Myrna! Don't go in the car! I know where your things are, Mycroft has them!"_

_"No, I already checked Myc's room." Myrna smiled at him again and praised his hands from her, giving him a quick kiss on his forehead. "I have to go now or I'll be late. Catch you later!"_

_"No, you won't!" he cried, but it was too late, she had already walked out of the front door. He ran back to the window and watched with horror as his beloved sister unlocked the car and climbed into the back. The stopwatch continued its countdown._

_5._

_4._

_3._

_2._

_1._

_BOOM._

_Sherlock screamed._

Moriarty smirked. "Oh, but we both know that's not quite true."

He was right, Sherlock knew. He had a heart; he just refused to use it. He had shut it down the day Myrna died, but it was still there. And recently he had started to think it was waking up again. Ever since he had met John. John faintly reminded Sherlock of Myrna. It was little things, like the way that even when he was angry he would smile so you had to look at his expressive eyes to try and tell what was going through his head. And the bravery, the way he was willing to put his life on the line for Sherlock, or indeed, for anyone. The sense of adventure, the thirst for knowledge, the thought that went into every decision. Little things, just little things, which built up and made Sherlock think that maybe he didn't have to hide from the world any more. How did Moriarty know?

"Well, I'd better be off" Moriarty said, looking around at John, who still had a bomb strapped to him under the green coat. "So nice to have had a proper chat." Sherlock couldn't let him leave. He knew a little too much about Myrna for comfort, especially as it happened almost thirty years ago. In fact, it was after midnight so it was thirty years exactly, to the day. Sherlock re-aimed the gun.

"What if I were to shoot you now, right now?"

"Well then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face." Moriarty pulled a face that was evidently meant to be surprise, before smiling and licking his lips again. "Because I'd be surprised, Sherlock, really I would. And just a teensy bit… disappointed."

So Moriarty knew that Sherlock wouldn't shoot him. He had to know how Jim knew as much as he did about Myrna, and how she fit in to the crimes Jim had made his life's work. Myrna had always tried to enforce strict moral guidelines on her brothers, so there was no way that anybody who felt strongly enough about her would have turned criminal to avenge her; she wouldn't have approved. The game was still on.

"And of course" Moriarty continued, "you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long. Ciao. Sherlock Holmes."

Moriarty turned to leave and Sherlock kept the gun trained on him. "Catch. You. Later." He said, echoing his sister's last words to show the madman he had understood the veiled references.

"No you won't!" Moriarty called back in a high voice, clearly supposed to mimic how Sherlock would have sounded at the age of eight. Sherlock allowed himself a sigh of relief, if only to increase the oxygen getting to his brain. This wasn't over. This was far from over. In fact, as Sherlock hurried over to John to unstrap the bomb, he had a horrible sinking feeling that this might only be the beginning.

He lowered the gun and dashed to John's side. He wanted the explosives as far away from them as possible but his fingers refused to co-operate fully. His friend would be entering shock from the rapid drop in blood pressure and volume, and of course the adrenaline and glucose that had been the natural reaction to the situation. The doctor would recognise any serious or unusual symptoms in himself sooner than Sherlock could diagnose them.

"All right?" Sherlock asked. "Are you all right?" His voice was demanding, and Myrna would have reprimanded him. He saw her face wearing a disapproving look in his mind's eye and redoubled his efforts on the coat fastening.

"Yeah yeah, I'm fine." John answered as the fastenings of the bomb finally came free, and Sherlock was able to take them from John, ugly coat and all. John protested, calling his name. Probably an attempt to re-assert his independence after being held hostage, Sherlock reasoned, sliding the bomb away across the floor.

Why had he let Moriarty escape? So many questions were whirling around in his mind, many of which he could work out the answers to for himself if he knew Moriarty's connection to his sister. He ran to the door, gun still in hand and opened it, but there was no sign of the man or his minions. That would have to wait until later then. For now he had to take care of John. Because John was good and kind, and had to be protected in a way he had never managed to protect his sister.

"Are you all right?" John asked. The effects of the events had, as Sherlock predicted, temporarily weakened John, making him sit on the floor by the wall.

"Me? Yeah, fine. I'm fine." He scratched his head with the gun, and began pacing the pool side. Sherlock's head was spinning. There was so much he needed to figure out.

"That-that, erm, thing that you did, that you offered to do, that was erm…" Sherlock struggled to speak, but not just because he was breathless. John's actions were some of the very first in his life that had rendered him completely unable to think of the appropriate words. "Good." He settled with. Good was good.

"I'm glad no-one saw that." John said in a defeated tone, leaving Sherlock puzzled. Did John not like people to know that he had a habit of saving or attempting to save Sherlock's life? He tried to ask his friend what he meant, but all that made its way out of his mouth was a single confused syllable. "You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool, people would talk." The bomb. The coat. Of course.

"People do little else." Sherlock imagined the look on Lestrade's face if he had seen that in the context John insinuated, and felt his face crack into a smile.

John started to stand, and Sherlock made to help him to his feet, but stopped short. There was a dot of dancing red light on John's chest. Had he passed out? Was this a hallucination? He heard John mutter a curse and knew it was neither.

The doors behind them opened with a clang, and Moriarty's expensive leather footsteps announced the return of their nemesis. "Sorry boys but I'm soooo changeable! It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness."

Sherlock silently disagreed. He had composed a mental list of Moriarty's weaknesses, including his vanity, ego, conceit, love of power, and a shortlist of possible mental ailments. Only the dancing red dot on his own chest kept him from voicing his point. "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't." Moriarty continued.Sherlock saw the horror grow on John's face as he processed the meaning of the statement, and felt his own heart-rate quicken.

Was this because of Myrna? Were he and John to die because she had died? Sherlock for causing her death, and John because he would not rest until he had uncovered Moriarty's motives; any idiot with an internet connection could dig up the information and John was no idiot.

"I would try and convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind." Even with his back turned Sherlock knew Jim was smirking, laughing at them. He cringed at the ability of this man to get inside his head so easily. Sherlock looked at John, who nodded, silently giving Sherlock his permission. Even when not party to all of the information, the soldier in Watson knew what was coming and wanted to go down fighting. If they had to die here then it would be on their terms, and they would take their would-be killer down with them.

"As probably my answer has crossed yours." Sherlock said, spinning around and pointing the gun at the bomb, which lay on the floor between himself and Moriarty. There was no surprise in the mad-man's eyes; he had expected this response.

If he expected this response and still went ahead, did that mean that this was what he wanted? For himself and Sherlock to die in the same fashion as Myrna? And what about John, Moriarty had placed him here, was he collateral damage, or was he here because he shared so many of Myrna's qualities? Sherlock had to know, he couldn't die not knowing. But then, if he squeezed the trigger, he wouldn't need to know, he would be thrown into blissful oblivion and know no more.

Moriarty smiled, and Sherlock almost did it.

And then the music started.

For a second, Sherlock had no idea what was going on. He glanced at John and the look on his face said that he didn't either, but that was nothing new. The sound echoed around the room, but it seemed to be coming from straight ahead, from Moriarty.The villain rolled his eyes, confirming this suspicion, and confusing Sherlock even further.

"You're staying alive! Staying alive!" the tinny voice sang. Sherlock would have to ask John about this song when they got out of here. If they got out of here.

"D'you mind if I get that?" Moriarty asked. His phone, the song was Moriarty's ringtone.

"Oh no, please. You have the rest of your life." Sherlock meant to sound threatening but over the silly music the statement just sounded cheesy.

Moriarty answered the phone. "Hello… Yes of course it is, what do you want?" He rolled his eyes and mouthed "Sorry!" which Sherlock batted away with his gun, mouthing back that it was fine. He wanted to laugh. It was so absurdly normal that it was insane. At least his final moments would be as thoroughly unpredictable to the general public as the rest of his life had been. It was oddly fitting.

"SAY THAT AGAIN!" Moriarty yelled suddenly, his sudden anger making John flinch, making Sherlock tighten his grip on the gun. "Say that again and know that if you are lying to me I will find you and I will skin you." Sherlock wondered who was on the other end, and what information they had to make Moriarty so angry. "All right!" the mad man shouted, placing the caller on hold.

Moriarty looked at the two men before him, and the two men looked back at him, before glancing at each other. Whatever had been said over the phone was about to affect their whole lives. Moriarty stepped forwards, almost too confidently considering that he, Sherlock, was the one pointing the gun at the bomb and therefore in control of all their fates at this moment. He readjusted his hold on the weapon to remind Jim of this fact, but the grey suited man wasn't even looking.

"Sorry. Wrong day to die…" their nemesis said distantly.

"Did you get a better offer?" Sherlock asked. He had psyched himself up for his imminent death so much that he was almost disappointed.

Moriarty looked unimpressed and Sherlock brought his other arm to steady the gun, in case it should be needed. "You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock." Moriarty told him, before bringing the phone up to his ear, making threats to the person on the other end that could be an attempt to scare either the caller or Sherlock and John. For all the duo knew it could be Jim's mother he was talking to. Unlikely though, Sherlock decided.

Moriarty snapped his fingers as he walked through the exit, and in an instant the 16 dots of dancing red light that had been darting around all stopped. John visibly relaxed. Sherlock pointed the gun around the balcony, but there were no signs of movement. If the snipers had been there at all, they had apparently now evaporated into thin air.

"What happened there then?" John asked, voicing one of the many questions that were buzzing around inside Sherlock's head.

"Someone changed his mind." Sherlock told him. Had the timing been a coincidence or had the caller known they were in trouble? And what, if anything, did all this have to do with Myrna? All this he knew he could figure out for himself if he knew the answer to one question. "The question is: who?" Sherlock said aloud.

They stayed there in silence for a few moments more, listening for any sign of Moriarty's return and trying to wrap their heads around what had just happened. They were alive. Someone had just saved their lives. Possibly unknowingly and probably unintentionally, but the point remained.

Sherlock pocketed the gun and helped a protesting John to his feet, and the pair hastily left the pool. Had they taken one last look around the balcony as they did, they may have noticed a woman with a badly scarred face watching them through the gloom, a proud smile playing on her lips.


	2. A Scandal

SIX MONTHS AGO

Irene Adler almost ran into her London house, and threw off her coat and shoes as she raced up the stairs. She was going to be late for her client if she didn't hurry; Kate would understand about the mess. Normally she didn't worry too much about making her customers wait, as it reminded them who was in charge and their anticipation only increased their longing. However the woman she was to see today was a first timer, so she wanted to make a good first impression. Experience had taught her that it was easier to make an impact when the client was in a good mood.

She dashed to her bedroom and quickly changed into the lingerie she had picked out earlier, put back her hair and touched up her make-up. She was admiring her reflection when Kate knocked on the door.

"She's here. I showed her through to the office."

Irene waited. Kate never came to tell her a client had arrived unless there was something strange or different she felt the need to warn her boss about.

"She's un-nerving. And, well, there's no other way of saying it, she's… deformed." The red head declared in a hushed voice, as if worried the stranger might hear.

"In what way?" Irene asked.

"Scars. All up her arms and neck. Her left hand is barely recognisable as a hand. Her face was covered so I couldn't see, but there's a good chance it's the same everywhere."

Irene nodded her thanks for the prior notice, checked the time and kissed her assistant on the cheek as she passed her on the way to the door.

The office was so named because it was where Irene did her business, but it was by no means an office in the traditional sense. It did have a desk, but it was pushed into the far corner, and was covered in the tools of her trade. The room was dominated by a huge and comfortable bed, on which Irene's patron was currently perched. She wore an elegant black dress that Irene recognised as Westwood, opaque tights and low-heeled black shoes; Kate would have taken her coat and handbag downstairs before bringing her up. An elegant looking walking stick was leaned against the wall- Irene made a mental note to make use of that later if she got the chance. Her face was veiled, as Kate had said, so Irene couldn't gage her client's reaction as she walked confidently through the door.

She had dealt with customers who had deformities before, many of them high-ups in the army who had been too close to an enemy shell or the like, and wanted her to show them that they were still capable of inciting and experiencing sexual feelings. Unlike most, however, this woman's scars weren't raw and fresh looking; they were well healed. Whatever had happened to her had happened many years ago.

Irene dropped to her knees and ran her fingertips down the woman's left arm. The stub that had once been a middle finger twitched.

"Why don't you take off your veil? If I can see your reactions it's easier for me to see…what you like" she whispered seductively, but with an edge to her voice hinting that this was not so much a request as a demand. The woman complied, and slowly removed the veil. Irene had to be careful not to allow her thoughts to show in her reactions as she took in the woman's damaged appearance. She was glad Kate had prepared her. It was as though someone had taken a wax replica of a human head and held a flame to the left side until only the basic shape remained. The right hand side gave hints to what must once have been; defined cheekbones and a sleek jawline. The eyes too were undamaged; piercing blue-grey, seeming to look inside you rather than simply at you. Her hair was patchy, with clumps of short dark curls growing on the least-scarred parts of her scalp. This woman must once have been beautiful, Irene decided, and wondered what had happened to her.

But it was not her job to ask those questions. Kate had dealt with all of the health and safety issues, so all Irene had to do now was impress. She leaned forward and trailed nibbling kisses down the undamaged side of her client's neck, and was pleased when she tilted her head back to allow her better access. After a minute however, the scarred woman raised her hand, halting Irene's progress.

"That's quite enough, thank you Becky" she rasped. Irene stared at her. The voice must have been in her head, there was no way… Kate was the only person who knew that Irene was not her real name, and even she didn't know what her birth identity had been. She stood up, glaring down at the woman, attempting to maintain her composure.

"Excuse me? What did you call me?" she demanded. It was possible that it was an attempt at role-play. Some clients wanted her to be somebody specific. But then, why that name? and why give orders to a dominatrix?

"Becky. A foul shortening of Rebecca. I understand entirely why you chose 'Irene', so much more sophisticated. And 'Adler', the name of the Austrian psychotherapist who developed the concept of the inferiority complex, how fitting for your chosen profession."

Irene stood stunned. She was not used to being unsure of how to proceed but she was so far out of her depth that she was almost drowning.

"How do you know-"

"Oh please, don't ask the boring question" the woman said rolling her eyes. "Ask me why I'm here. Ask me what I want from you. Don't ask me how I came to find information that is freely available on the internet. Better yet, go and put some clothes on, gather up what is left of your dignity, then come back and we can start again."

Irene scarpered out of the room, adrenaline pumping through her. She felt like a goody-two-shoes schoolgirl who had just been told off by the head teacher. She leaned back against the wall and took a deep breath. Kate, alerted by a sensor on the office door, came up the stairs, probably wondering why the session had ended so quickly. Irene tried to regain her composure, noting that her eyes were damp and her limbs were shaking. There was no fooling Kate though, who saw through the pretence immediately, and rushed her into her bedroom, locking the door behind them.

Irene told Kate what had happened, what the client had said, what she had somehow known. Kate went to take the woman from the office down to the living room, and Irene put on a dressing gown and composed herself before following.

In the front room, the woman was now seated on the sofa, and Kate by the door. Pretending to be more confident than she felt, Irene went over and stood in front of the woman. She could work out nothing. She took pride in the fact that she was good at reading people, but this woman's face was so badly damaged that she could work out nothing. She had insisted on anonymity, which was nothing unusual, but it meant that Irene knew nothing about this woman who now sat in her home.

"You're not here as a client, are you?"

"Finally, the penny drops."

Irene glanced at Kate, who mimed their code for 'danger'.

"So why are you here?" Irene tried to sound haughty, hoping the stranger would not notice the slight quaver in her voice.

"You have recently come to the attention of a… friend of mine. He knows of the clientele you serve and the measures you take to protect yourself and may one day approach you attempting to secure some of this information. I'm here to make sure he never gets his hands on it."

"What makes you think we'll do anything you say?" Kate asked from the doorway. The stranger turned around to look at her.

"Because, Kathryn dear, I can be very persuasive. Your mistress has an inkling, but if you don't do as I ask then you'll find out first hand just how persuasive I can be."

Irene thought about the fact that this woman knew her real name, and knew without a doubt that she would do anything this woman asked without question. She nodded just once, and the other two women understood; Kate's jaw dropped and the stranger gave her a smug smile.

"Who are you, and what do you want me to do?" the dominatrix asked, happy to be back on business-like terms, even if it was a different type of business to that she was used to.

"My name is Myrna Holmes. And I want you to help me protect my little brothers."

* * *

As Myrna travelled from the Adler woman's Belgravia home to her own apartment in Mayfair, she thought back, as she often did, to the day of her accident. The journey was less than 2 miles but in the Greater London traffic it would take almost 20 minutes. She wished she could take public transport. She was well aware of the cruel irony of her situation; of the three Holmes siblings, she alone had an ingrained social competence alongside the customary logic and intelligence that ran in the family, and yet it was she who had suffered the disfigurement that prevented her from communicating with normal people on a daily basis.

She had not been in the car when it exploded; there had been a little boy at the end of the driveway, James. He had called out to her and she had climbed out to speak to him as the vehicle blew up. Her parents had told the press that she was dead. It was better for the family reputation, they said. Better that she be assumed dead than the mess of scars that she had been reduced to be on the front of every newspaper. As it was the story was the scandal of the century, even without the horrifying images to accompany it. Not even her brothers knew she was still alive; their reactions would make it more believable, Mummy had said. Sherlock had been led to believe that he was responsible for her death. It had been necessary, but she regretted that fact more than anything.

She thought about little James, who also believed he had watched her die that day. He was 7 years old, just a year younger than Sherlock. As the son of the housekeeper, the two boys might have been good friends and played together, if that was the sort of thing those two did. Instead, Myrna had watched James while his mother worked (always at his home, James was not allowed to enter the Holmes house), reading him stories and helping him with his schoolwork. She had always had her suspicions about the boy's parentage; the evidence was too substantial to ignore. He had dark hair while both of his parents were blond. He had the famous Holmes intelligence and the lack of social sense that almost always went with it. His mother was the family's housekeeper for Heaven's sake. For Myrna there was no question, and as he grew older she could tell that James had come to the same conclusion.

"Tell me about your brothers" he would demand, and Myrna did so, exchanging stories for apples. She told him how Sherlock was about to sit his O' levels, and how Mycroft's application to Oxford, where she had recently graduated from, was progressing well. She told him of Sherlock's love of playing the violin, and Mycroft's maths jokes. She told him that while 14 year old Mycroft had a sensible plan to one day be something big in politics, Sherlock wanted to be a pirate. James agreed with Sherlock that a career as a pirate sounded fun, and more than once she found herself giving him a lecture on the negative aspects of crime. She frowned, as while Sherlock had taken her words to heart and now worked with the police, James had in effect become a modern day land-based pirate. He used the foul shortened version of his name too. She herself was guilty of shortening 'Mycroft' to 'Myc', but 'Jim' was the name of one of her teddy bears and, in her opinion, wholly unsuitable for a grown man. If it wasn't for her accident she would have put a stop to that at the very least.

She didn't feel any anger towards Sherlock for what had happened. She knew that he hadn't meant to hurt her, and he  _had_  tried to warn her. The media's claims that the little boy was heartless were ludicrous- she knew that her baby brother would have been torn up over her apparent death and racked with guilt that it was his fault, but their parents would have firmly told him that it was improper to shed tears in public. Whatever it said in the papers, she knew that it wasn't Sherlock's fault; it was an accident, pure and simple.

She adjusted her veil as the car approached its destination, and waited for the driver to open the door for her as she was unable to grip the handle properly. She lived eleven doors down the street from her brother Mycroft but thanks to the anonymity of London, he didn't have the slightest idea.

Her assistant handed her the messages she had missed while out of the house, and she smiled as she read the top one. Sherlock had a flat-mate, and Mycroft had tried but failed to bribe him for information. Sibling rivalry, she thought to herself. Even amongst those with higher intelligence, it new no bounds.

She would remember that thought later on, and curse herself for how right she had been.


	3. The Pool (again)

Something was wrong. Very wrong. Myrna had suspected something when James stared seeing the young woman from the morgue that Sherlock used to conduct his experiments, but had just assumed that the woman's charms had drawn both boys in. She had known it was too much of a coincidence! Why had she ignored her instincts? The evidence had been clear, the logical conclusion was that James was up to something and yet she had done nothing about it.

"Faster!" she shrieked at the driver, who obediently put his foot down and ran a red light. Her assistant looked terrified, but said nothing. They pulled up at St. Barts, and Myrna struggled with the handle, too impatient to wait for the door to be opened for her. She had to find out what James was up to, and there was only one person she could think of to ask who might be able to give her any clues.

Molly Hooper was preparing to leave as Myrna walked into her lab, closely followed by her bodyguard, driver and assistant. Molly stared with terror in her eyes. Myrna's skin was covered from head to toe, but the unannounced arrival of her small entourage this close to midnight must have been disconcerting. Myrna pointed at a chair with her walking stick, and the bodyguard asked the doctor to take a seat, standing behind her to discourage an attempt at escape or phoning for help. Myrna didn't wish harm on the girl, quite the opposite in fact, but she didn't want an investigation into her visit. Especially from Mycroft.

The girl was pretty, but she was no ravishing beauty. There could well be more to the girl than met the eye, but Myrna was sure it was not this girl that the two men were interested in. Myrna could read her intelligence from her haircut and her sense of humour from her cardigan- this girl was far too pink-fluffy-bunnies-and-kittens-with-bows-round-their-necks for Myrna's taste. No, there was something else going on.

"Molly- may I call you Molly?" Myrna rasped, and the girl nodded. "I have a few questions about a gentleman friend of yours. Oh- Morgan, what name does he go by these days?"

"Jim Moriarty, Ma'am" the assistant answered promptly.

"Moriarty, that's it. Molly, tell me about James Moriarty."

"I-I don't really know him. He used to come down here, and came to my flat once, but after he met Sherlock… I thought I saw him in the corridor today, but I think he bumped into John and they both left together."

"John? John Watson?"

"Yes."

Myrna's mind went into overdrive. John had refused a bribe from Mycroft less than 24 hours after meeting Sherlock, why would he wander off with James while his flatmate was busy on a case trying to save lives? Unless John didn't know who James was? But then still the question remained, why would he wander off alone with him while Sherlock was on a case? Something was certainly wrong.

"Ma'am, there's been a development" Morgan said, interrupting Myrna's train of thought. The assistant held up a phone for Myrna to see, and her eyes widened in shock as she read the message that Sherlock had just posted on the website.

"Message Kate. Get them on standby. Addison, prepare the car." The driver obediently dashed off down the hall. "Morgan, give Miss Hooper my card. Molly, if you ever, and I mean _ever_ , suspect that Sherlock is in danger, call that number. And I'm sure you have had enough dealings with the Holmes family to know not to mention this meeting to anyone. Especially not Mycroft. Bailey, ensure the young lady gets home safely."

With that, Myrna and her assistant left, leaving a shocked and confused Molly alone with the bodyguard.

* * *

They arrived at the pool minutes before the allotted time, and Myrna told her staff to wait in the car, hiding round the back, while she herself went inside. She struggled up the stairs to the balcony. She would just watch for now. The boys might be able to settle their differences without her help, but she would be ready to intervene if necessary.

When John walked into the room she saw instantly what was happening. Her contacts had seen James buy a coat like the thing John was wearing, and had reported it because it was so unlike anything else he ever wore. Had James forced him, coerced him or threatened him? It couldn't be bribery, John had refused money after knowing Sherlock less than 24 hours, he wasn't going to accept it after months. The effect on Sherlock was obvious though; he radiated horror and betrayal.

And then John opened the jacket. The poor man. Myrna wasn't sure if the explosives were real or not, but with James' recent antics in mind it really wouldn't surprise her. He wasn't the type to do things by halves. There was a red dot on John's throat that looked worryingly like a rifle sight. Myrna looked around for the gunman, wondering how she could take him out, but there was nobody else on the balcony. Instead, a laser pen was sat in the grip of a small machine on a tripod, quavering slightly to replicate the shaking of a human hand. She frowned, the action making her scarred forehead ache. At least James couldn't blow them up by shooting.

And then the man himself appeared. Myrna had received reports of his behaviour, but his attitude really was beyond a joke. The boy needed a stern talking to. She smiled at the faint memory of the days when she had made him spend five minutes on the 'naughty step' for answering back. And, to add insult to injury, he was calling himself  _Jim._ Was the boy incapable of behaving himself? Oh and Sherlock had a gun. Whose bright idea was it to give him that? He really was a menace when it came to weapons.

"…thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play…"

She cringed. This wasn't a game! She wanted to scream it at him, but she had to stay pressed against the wall in case they looked up and saw her. Neither of the boys had really been the 'go out to play' type, if they had then they might have been friendly. As it was, they both sat in their respective homes and studied, meaning they probably only met once or twice if that. Sherlock wouldn't recognise the name either. The housekeeper had been unmarried and James had apparently taken his father's name.

"People have died!"

"THAT'S WHAT PEOPLE DO!"

James had always had a short temper. Myrna wondered if it was her own apparent death he was so angry about. The symbolism was far too apparent; someone Sherlock cared about wrapped in explosives in between the two of them, his own finger on the trigger, circumstances forcing both to bear witness to the explosion should it happen. The date hadn't escaped her notice either. Thirty years to the day.

James stepped forward to take something from Sherlock, and John took the opportunity to grab James from behind and yelled at Sherlock to run. Oh, that man. Myrna would have to find a suitable way to reward him. He knew the danger and thinking there was no way out for him anyway, tried to do what he could to save Sherlock. Sherlock, of course, didn't move. Both of them were so secure in their loyalty to each other that they had no thoughts of leaving the other in jeopardy to save themselves.

Another light appeared, this one on Sherlock's forehead, and Myrna spotted another tripod on the other side of the balcony. Now that she knew what to look for, she saw that there were actually sixteen of them all around the balcony. A false army was set up around the room to invade her brother's mind.

"Westwood!" she heard James proclaim, and in an instant her opinion of the brand illogically plummeted, glad that she had elected for the practicality of a Gucci trouser suit.

The boys exchanged a few more death threats, and then James made to leave.

"Catch you later."

"No you won't!"

She recognised the last words exchanged between herself and Sherlock, and wondered how on Earth James knew. And why had he set up 16 laser pointers if he only planned to use 2? Was it to cover all of the angles or did he have other plans? She might have worried about these things a little more, but she was too full of relief that the confrontation had ended injury free to concern herself with trivial details.

Her brother ripped the bomb from his flatmate and threw it across the room, and both checked the other was ok. Sherlock was frantic and John was in shock, but both were alive and physically unharmed, and that was the important thing.

They were laughing the encounter off and readying to leave, when the laser pointer next to Myrna switched itself on, the light falling on John's chest. This wasn't over. She wanted to scream with frustration, but she had to keep herself quiet, for their sake. One by one, the pointers all switched on, all of them aimed at either Sherlock or John.

"Sorry boys but I'm soooo changeable! It is a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness."

Myrna silently disagreed. She had composed a mental list of Moriarty's weaknesses, including his ego, vanity, lack of patience, love of power, conceit, delusions of grandeur, and a shortlist of possible mental ailments. If she ever got the chance to speak to him, she would tell him and insist he did something about it.

All of a sudden, Myrna could see what James was doing. He was setting history up to repeat itself. It wasn't just symbolism to remind Sherlock that he was responsible for his sister's death, it was a re-enactment, but this time all of them would go. She knew that James had formed an attachment to her, constructed from the suspicion that they were related, and she knew that witnessing her apparent death at such a young age would have an effect on him, but she never imagined he would want to avenge her death, never mind set up an elaborate scenario allowing him to die kamikaze style in the same way that he thought she had.

She typed out a message on her phone;

_**tell JM that im alive. now.** _

She sent it to the whore and her assistant, and prayed that the response would come quickly enough. Sherlock was going to shoot. She could see it in his eyes and the set of his jaw. If it was her, she would have done it by now. The cogs were turning in his brain, looking for another way out, and any second now he was going to realise that there wasn't one and pull the trigger.

James' phone rang. It was an annoying polyphonic version of a bad 80's pop song, but if it saved her brother's life she would never openly insult the genre again.

The would-be villain answered the call, and after a few moments yelled out in fury. Myrna almost laughed out loud and wished she could hear the other side of the conversation.

" _Is that Jim Moriarty?"_

"Yes of course it is. What do you want?"

" _Myrna is alive._

"SAY THAT AGAIN! Say that again and know that if you are lying to me I will skin you."

" _I have evidence that Myrna Holmes survived the explosion. She's alive. Of course if you don't want the details…"_

"All right!"

It was going to complicate her life, but she never turned down a little excitement.

"You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock." James promised, and Myrna wondered why he hadn't told the two men the news he had received. Surely he knew that the information would drive Sherlock mad? Not that it mattered to her. She was half glad he hadn't. The news had served its purpose and her baby brother was alive and well.

Sherlock helped a protesting John to his fee and Myrna watched the two of them fondly. She was so proud of them. They really were perfect for each other; Sherlock provided John with the excitement that he needed, and John kept Sherlock from going out of control. Sure, they needed watching over when something out of the ordinary happened, such as Sherlock's long lost half-brother coming out of the woodwork making death threats, but Myrna was more than happy to be their guardian angel when they needed one.


	4. Filler Drabble

Sherlock couldn't sleep. After the encounter with Moriarty and the all too obvious hints to a connection with his sister, his brain just wouldn't switch off. John had assumed that it was the near death experience that had him on edge and tried to calm him with endless cups of sweet tea, but the caffeine in it had the opposite effect. He lay on the sofa in the front room in his dressing gown, staring blankly at the ceiling.

He remembered that when he was a child, Myrna had tucked him in every night, brushing his curls out of his eyes, kissing him on the forehead and turning out the light.

"Love you!" he would call out as she reached the door.

"Love you too!" she would answer.

"Love you three!"

"Love you four!"

He would invariably be fast asleep before they reached ten.

John was having a bit of a tidy up in the front room, collecting cups that seemed to duplicate themselves throughout the day. He knew Sherlock wouldn't bother to get up and make himself a drink, but he hadn't made this many, so how there were so many dotted around the front room was beyond him. He froze as two of the mugs in his hand clinked together loudly, and glanced over at Sherlock, who he took to be sleeping on the sofa, but the tall man didn't move. He did mumble something though a single word, but John couldn't work out what it was. Mine? Mice? Perhaps not. Nine? Or Nein even? John didn't have a clue, really. He had enough trouble working out what was going through Sherlock's head when he was fully conscious without trying to decipher his dreams.

Smiling briefly at his flatmate, John wandered off into the kitchen with the collection of cups to wash up, trying not to puzzle too much at how little impact recent events appeared to have had on the sleeping man.

 


	5. Belgravia

They had their meetings via webcam now. Myrna was sure that Moriarty would be watching Irene's every move since their phone call in the pool, so there was no way they could meet in person. Even though she was inside her own home, Myrna wore a thick veil to hide her face. Irene wondered whether it was for her benefit or if she wore it all the time.

"When the time is right, we send a message on your behalf to the right people, saying that you have photographs of  _that_  client on your phone." Myrna said, sounding slightly too pleased with herself. "If I'm right, Mycroft will send Sherlock to get it from you. I'd tell you to make an impression, but I'm sure it's something you can manage on your own. When James gets too close and demands the proof that I'm alive, we fake your death and give Sherlock the phone. I have upped the encryptions on it, but make sure you change the password weekly. I don't want him accessing even half of the information you have on that thing."

"Did you just say we're going to fake my death? How are you going to do that? One test and they'll know it's not me." Irene pointed out. It seemed like such an obvious flaw that she was hesitant to point it out. They had already discussed how Myrna knew about her royal client, or rather, Irene had asked and Myrna had been evasive.

"Oh there are ways, dear. Things like that are only as accurate as the records you keep, remember that. I'll take care of it. Look at me, I've been dead for thirty years according to official records. You can make a miraculous reappearance once James' contacts have established that the phone isn't in your possession."

"And what if he still comes after me?"

"Oh, we'll deal with that if and when." Myrna dismissed the issue as if it was a minor point. Irene wished she had pressed her for answers.

"How do we know when it's time?" Irene asked, and imagined the veiled woman rolling her eyes at yet another apparently obvious question.

"The blog of his flatmate is becoming increasingly popular. A little bit of fame, the public eye upon him, it'll protect him. James will not be able to attack him if he's in the media spotlight because there will be too many questions asked. We wait until he's a minor celebrity. It'll be safer or us all."

* * *

The day Sherlock appeared in the paper, Myrna and Irene decided it was time. Myrna had her people watching her brother, and sent some of the photos to Irene.

_**I'm sending you a treat.** _

A treat indeed. Sherlock Holmes had been picked up by Palace employees, as Myrna had instructed, but he appeared to be wearing nothing but a bed sheet. He was a remarkably handsome man. Stubborn too, by the looks of things. Intelligent, going by his reputation. This was a man she could easily find herself attracted to if he wasn't essentially a work contact. Myrna didn't need to tell Irene that sleeping with her brother wasn't allowed; her protectiveness and obvious distain for Irene's chosen profession did that for her.

"I'm going to need some time to get ready." She told Kate.

"A lot of time?"

"Loads."

More photos were sent. Sherlock had left the Palace and, now dressed, appeared to be on his way. Her orders were to make an impression. She knew exactly how to do that. Today was going to be a day Sherlock Holmes never forgot, and it would teach his sister something about him ; Sherlock was a man not a boy.

"What are you going to wear?"

"My battle dress."

* * *

Sherlock was everything Irene had expected, and then some. The similarities between him and Myrna were striking. The height, the build, the eyes, the intelligence. The attitude.

" _You cater to the whims of the pathetic and take your clothes off to make an impression. Stop boring me and_ _ **think**_ _."_

" _Oh please, don't ask the boring question. Go and put some clothes on, gather up what is left of your dignity, then come back and we can start again."_

She was almost glad that fate had kept them apart for however many years- together they would be a frightening team. She tried not to be affected by it, she really did, but as life had taught her, some things are easier said than done.

There was something about this family. Something about them that drew you in and held you there. She was becoming addicted. She couldn't get away. No matter what she told herself, the danger she was placing herself in and the lack of care they seemed to show, she kept going back.

Jim Moriarty, as predicted, was getting more and more insistent about gaining the promised information, and his patience was quickly running out. She could have run. She should have run. But instead she went with Myrna's plan, because it meant seeing Sherlock again.

When she changed the password for the last time before her 'death' at Christmas, she meant it as a joke. She might have thought twice about it if she'd realised that Sherlock would analyse the data and find it to be the truth.

* * *

Myrna was angry. Morgan had never seen her so angry, in almost 8 years of working for her. The news had just come through that Miss Adler had, in an attempt to save her own skin, informed James Moriarty about Mycroft's so called 'Bond Air', which could have been used numerous times to save hundreds of lives. Had there not been a plan? Did Myrna not clearly tell the woman not to give Sherlock access to the information on the phone? The whole household was on edge, trying to avoid doing any tiny thing to give their employer reason to vent her rage on them.

"Where is she now?" Myrna demanded.

"She and her assistant went to Germany. They parted company in Stuttgart, and then she headed alone to Bulgaria. She was last seen in Katerini trying to gain passage to Izmir." Morgan informed her.

"All on the forged passport we provided her with, I presume?" She sighed. "Is James pursuing her?"

"Yes ma'am. Would you like us to retrieve her?"

"No." It was the coldest syllable Morgan had ever heard, and sent a shiver down the poor assistant's spine. There was a tense silence, before Myrna rested her head in her hands in resignation. She was beyond angry, but she was not a monster, and Irene had saved her brother's life at the pool. She considered her options for a moment, before giving her order, her voice tainted with a hint of resignation. "Send Sherlock."

* * *

 

Irene was in trouble. She ran as fast and as hard as she could, but she knew she wasn't going fast enough. They were going to catch her. She cursed the woman who had landed her in this mess; in fact, she cursed the entire Holmes family.  _Tell Moriarty I'm alive_  she said.  _Tell him the proof is on your phone then don't let him have it_  she said. Fat lot of good that had done her. Maybe the plan all along had been to feed her to the wolves at the end. She had spotted an opportunity to save herself and she had taken it. The only problem was, she wasn't doing that well on her own either. Moriarty's men were gaining on her.

She felt arms grab her from behind, tightening around her chest, holding her arms to her sides. She screamed and struggled and tried to bite and claw her way free, but her captor was too strong. This was the end.

* * *

 

Sherlock didn't know why he believed the note that was left on his bedside table, but he had. There had been nothing going for it it, no watermark on the paper, the signature an obvious forgery, and yet he had jumped on a plane and headed directly for the location he had been given.

It wasn't a trap, as his instincts had screamed, but a worthwhile trip. Irene was being held captive, due to be executed. He did as his anonymous informant suggested, and staged the scene to look as though Irene had indeed been killed, and left it for his brother and the rest of the world's governments to find. She already had a fake identity, so he escorted her to the safety of the nearest city and parted company with her.

For a reason that even he couldn't quite fathom, he wasn't too concerned with finding his mystery informant. It wasn't worth the energy. He knew that, at some point, if he waited long enough, they would reveal themselves to him.


	6. Mycroft's Captive

Mycroft didn't really have relationships with people. Yes, there were some he had duties towards, and some were his responsibility, but he wouldn't say he had  _feelings_  towards them. Feelings were messy and in most cases totally unnecessary. They were debilitating and interfered with logic. Loyalty was one thing, but needless emotional attachments with individual people got in the way more often than they were in any way constructive.

Take Sherlock for example. As the elder brother it was Mycroft's duty to keep an eye on Sherlock, out of family loyalty and their mutual respect of the reputation of the family name. He had not always had this responsibility; he had inherited it, but took it very seriously.

Sherlock didn't seem to understand that their roles had altered however. He had respected the first born, as he ought to, but didn't show the same respect for Mycroft when he took over the position. Beyond that, he formed attachments to people, some of which could be seen as obsessive. His relationship with the doctor-soldier-lapdog for example. The two were thoroughly devoted to each other for no discernible reason. It was clearly platonic but Mycroft took a strange enjoyment from pointing out that to lesser minds it would appear to be more. And his feud with the master criminal, Moriarty. Nobody really had mortal enemies anymore; it was the twenty first century for Heaven's sake. But those two seemed to drop everything and run whenever the opportunity presented itself for one to outdo the other. Mycroft was at a loss to explain it, which was exceptionally rare.

Sherlock was not forthcoming with an explanation, so after the events at the pool, Mycroft took matters into his own hands. Sherlock called that sort of thing 'interfering'. Mycroft called it 'family'. It was this discrepancy, among other things, that forced Mycroft's decision to neglect to tell his brother of his intentions to bring the master criminal in for questioning at a secure government institution. Sherlock wasn't the only person who wasn't informed; the interview was thoroughly off the record. Of course, Mycroft didn't tell his staff that it was personal. He made out that they were interrogation him about the key code he was rumoured to have created.

It was infuriatingly unsuccessful in the beginning. Nothing seemed to be enough to motivate the criminal to utter a single sound. They tried practically everything on the list of banned interrogation techniques but Moriarty had a high threshold. In his mind it was a challenge, and he was determined to win. But Mycroft wasn't willing to let this slimy little man get one over on him quite so easily. After keeping the man in a windowless, concrete lined interrogation room, lit by a one single bulb, with food, water, bathroom trips and showers withheld as incentives to answer the constant barrage of questions, Mycroft decided it was time to show his prisoner just who was pulling the strings.

The difference in Moriarty was immediate. As soon as Mycroft opened the door, Moriarty changed, and something that could even have passed for a smile glimmered across his lips. The viewing room was empty, and the interrogator had taken a break, so it was just the two of them. Mycroft could do or say anything and nobody would ever know. He walked slowly around the room, circling the prisoner before finally coming to a stop in front of him, so that they were facing each other.

Moriarty was a state. His hair was greasy, his face unshaven and slightly gaunt as a result of their inconsistent feeding over the past few weeks. There were bags under his eyes from lack of sleep, as although they had given him plenty of opportunities, the master criminal never seemed to close his eyes for more than five minutes at a time. His usual sharp designer suit was gone, replaced by tracksuit bottoms and a plain white t-shirt. He was drenched in sweat from a mixture of the beatings he had received and the balmy heat inside the little room. There were no visible bruises however; Mycroft had been quite clear that he wanted no permanent damage done to the criminal, and nothing that would prevent him from speaking. Not yet anyway.

"Mr Moriarty." Mycroft said eventually, breaking the silence between them.

"Mr Holmes. I'd tell you to pull up a chair, but you appear to have only provided one, and I'm quite attached to it." Moriarty replied, gesturing towards the ropes that bound his wrists to the arms of the wooden chair. It was the most he had spoken since his arrival. Mycroft didn't allow his reaction to show on his face, twisting it into a smile instead.

"Attempts at humour. In your position, I find that quite surprising."

"I find your face quite surprising. Does that make us even?"

Mycroft wanted to leave. This man had an infuriating quality, much like Sherlock did, of knowing just which buttons to press to annoy him. The greatest criminal mind in the country, if not the world, had just made a "so's your face" joke. Juvenile. But he had made more progress in two minutes than a team of fully trained operatives had made in weeks.

He leaned casually against the ledge of the one-way mirror that dominated the far wall, and again twisted his face into a smile, calculating his next move.

"You want information from me." Moriarty stated, interrupting the silence that had lapsed between them.

"Are you willing to give it?"

"That would depend on what you have to offer me in return."

Mycroft folded his arms and frowned. "What would you ask for?"

Moriarty appeared not to hear the question, and a dreamy far-away look had appeared in his eyes.

"I used to give your sister apples. She loved apples. Red ones were her favourite, but she'd settle for green if they were all we had. I could always tell the difference in the quality of her stories though."

Mycroft tried and failed to hide his surprise at these words. His heart was beating unbearably fast and his breathing was audibly rapid. He didn't do physical exertion, and the shock caused by the words that had come so casually from the criminal's mouth was almost more than his frail body could take. He knew, of course, that Moriarty was the son of a couple in his family's household staff (or at least, that was what the records said), but he had no idea that his sister had even come into contact with the boy- he himself had certainly never seen him. Mycroft's first instinct was to accuse the man of lying, but how else would he know about the apples? There had been an apple tree in the Holmes' back garden, and in summer Myrna could often be found climbing it to reach the fruits that hung from the higher branches, claiming that they were the sweetest.

"Would you like an apple, James?" Mycroft asked, trying to keep his tone light and jokey, to hide the effects the villain's words had on him.

"No, Mycroft. I want a story." The criminal's whole demeanour was suddenly full of childlike innocence. There was something wrong inside his head. Mycroft had known this already, of course, but this appeared to confirm it.

He hesitated for a moment to long before asking; "What story would you like?" in his most condescending tone, one he normally reserved for Sherlock.

"She used to tell me about Sherlock." Moriarty said simply.

That was how it started. Mycroft would tell a tale about Sherlock, and in return, would be allowed to ask a single question. The length and quality of the story Mycroft told was directly related to the quality of the answer Moriarty gave, but even then they didn't get much out of him.

"Where is the key?"

"In my head."

"What is the key?"

"Computer code."

"What does the key do?"

"It opens doors."

"Who else has the key?"

"Nobody."

"Who else knows about the key?"

"Smart people."

One day however, several weeks in, Moriarty seemed to want to ask the questions.

"Where is your brother today?"

Mycroft grimaced. "Yesterday he used my access pass to gain entry to a secure research facility. I'm still trying to work out how he did it."

"Have you checked your pockets? He's a master of pickpocketing is our Sherlock." Moriarty replied with a grin. Mycroft decided not to ask how Moriarty knew this fact.

"Do you know what her theory used to be?" Moriarty asked suddenly, filling the lapse in the conversation. Mycroft simply raised his eyebrows. They had long since established without stating it out loud that 'she' was his late sister. "Do you know about my daddy?"

"He was a gardener, was he not?" Mycroft asked, feigning boredom as to where this was going.

"She didn't think so."

"Really. What did she think?"

"She thought my daddy was a businessman. Because I went to a  _very_ good school."

"My father paid for your education. You were a very bright child."

"Is that what they said? That must be the reason he spent thousands on me then. She was lovely, wasn't she? Do you hate him very much for taking her away?"

Mycroft tried his best not to react, but it wasn't as easy a task as it sounded.

"It has been the subject of many arguments between us. The councillors they sent him to see persuaded him that it wasn't his fault, but I have pointed out to him several times that it can hardly be said to be the fault of anybody else. He also resents that I took over her role as the lead sibling. He refuses to show the same level of respect to me as he did to her. Hers were very difficult shoes to fill, but I have fulfilled the duties of the role as best as I can, and in my humble opinion have done a sterling job. Sherlock, of course, disagrees for the sake of disagreeing."

Moriarty smiled and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. He didn't speak again, to anybody. He had started to thank the woman who brought in his meals, but even this stopped. His co-operation ended as suddenly as it had started. It was as though he had got what he had come for and was waiting patiently to be released. Instead of verbal communication, Moriarty began scratching letters into the walls. In the beginning they were just randomly placed letters; an 's' here, a 'k' there, but over time these letters began forming words. And these words were all the same.

After three days of endless silence and scratching, Mycroft's advisors gave him two options; to recommence with the unsuccessful tactics they had employed before Mycroft had spoken to him, or to discharge him. With a sigh, Mycroft selected the second option. He wasn't going to get any more sensible answers out of the madman, so he might as well be released back into the wild.

Mycroft didn't think twice about the masses of information he had given James Moriarty about his brother. At the time it seemed a harmless thing to do. After all, if his own dear sister had done the same then there could be no wrong in it; Myrna never made mistakes. All he had done was continue her tradition.

What could go wrong?


	7. Tea at 221b

Myrna sat glued to the television, flicking through the various news channels, barely blinking in case she should miss something important. Newspapers were spread out on her desk, Sherlock and James' faces staring out from the front pages of every one. She was frantic. Morgan had never seen her like this. She had an inside woman- a young blonde policewoman, but they would have to wait until after the trial for the full report. In the meantime, Myrna was obsessing over every piece of information she could get her hands on.

"He's planned this. Even if they find him guilty, he has the key to get out. He wants the media spotlight on this trial, and he's getting his way. But why? What is his aim?" Unsure of whether the boss was talking to herself or if she wanted Morgan to offer a response to the unanswerable question, the assistant remained silent.

As if on cue, the phone in Morgan's hand buzzed. Their inside woman had sent a text:

**_No defence, like she said. Jury coming back. Will tell you verdict as soon as can._ **

Morgan relayed this information to Myrna, who barely nodded. This would ease one of her fears at the very least; Myrna had predicted that either Moriarty would amount no defence, or that he would use his time to reveal Mycroft's interrogation. Whatever the outcome of the trial, it didn't answer the main question playing on her mind.

"He'll visit Sherlock, when he gets out. I want some highly trained killers on Baker Street. Organise it."

Morgan hesitated. Not because of the seemingly impossible nature of the instruction given; in fact several names had popped into the assistant's mind, and all were contactable through their relevant embassies. Perhaps 8 years was  _too_  long to be working for Myrna Holmes.

"But- won't that trigger alarms in Mycroft's office?"

"Moriarty will send some of his own anyway. Mycroft will assume Moriarty sent them all, and if Moriarty even notices then he'll assume it's Mycroft. Tell them not to speak to Sherlock. I don't want them slipping up and telling my brother who hired them. In fact, tell them that if they see any of the others, hired by me or by James, within ten feet of my brother, they're to shoot them without hesitation. They're to protect him from a distance, without his knowledge. "

After receiving such a broad instruction, Morgan normally posed questions to establish loopholes. This time however, the question "what if they're that close because they're saving his life from Moriarty's men" never made it from the PA's mouth; the phone buzzed again, and a text containing a single word came through. Morgan stared at it in disbelief. Surely it was impossible?

Myrna read her assistant's facial expression and body language, which told her all she needed to know about the outcome of the trial.

"They'll let him go. He'll go straight to Baker Street."

"What do we do?" Morgan asked, trying to control the bubbling sense of panic.

"We wait. And hope that they don't kill each other."

* * *

 

The violin. She told him that her brother, her perfect, sweet, angelic baby brother played the violin, but of course Jim had never heard it for himself. The stair creaked. Sherlock faltered on an accidental, paused, and then resumed his play.

The door to the flat wasn't locked. It wasn't even snecked. Jim pushed it open with ease. Sherlock was making no attempt to hide, but Jim never expected him to, not really. They were both too smart for running and hiding games, they were for little people.

"Most people knock. But then you're not most people I suppose. Kettle's just boiled." Tea. The most normal and British thing. John's solution to any problem and fitting for any scenario.

Jim picked up an apple from the fruit bowl and tossed it up in the air, aware that although Sherlock had his back turned towards him, he was watching his every move in the reflection of the mirror.

Sherlock wondered where the apples had come from. He had not bought them, and John preferred peaches. Mrs Hudson may have placed them there in an attempt to counterbalance their unhealthy diet, but she normally protested that providing food fell outside her job description of landlady. No, the more obvious and heart wrenching conclusion was that Moriarty had somehow placed the fruit there himself.

"May I?" Moriarty asked tersely, his tone clearly indicating that Sherlock ought to have offered him a seat by now. Sherlock indicated the seat opposite the window, where the light would shine and every flicker that went across Jim's face would be visible as if lit by a spotlight. Jim ignored the gesture, and chose for himself the one with the back to the light, casting his face into shadow. The villain in the dark, the angel in the light. Almost poetic really.

"Admit it. You're just a tiny bit pleased."

"What, with the verdict?"

"With me. Back on the streets. Every fairy-tale needs a good old fashioned villain. You need me or you're nothing. We're just alike, you and I, except you're boring. You're on the side of the angels."

He hoped Sherlock would understand the reference. Understand that although they were different sides of the same coin, they were against each other. The penny was in the air, thrown up by the explosion, and when it landed only one side could be on top. He sipped his tea.

Sherlock just scowled. Boring. Moriarty was calling him boring.

"You got to the jury of course." Sherlock pointed out. Boring. Moriarty used blackmail and coercion and violence and then labelled his few virtues as boring. Mycroft would probably agree, but then Mycroft would agree with anything if it meant siding against Sherlock. Why break the habit of a lifetime?

"So how are you going to do it? Burn. Me."

"Oh, that's the problem, the final problem. Have you worked out what it is yet? What's the final problem? I did tell you, but did you listen?" Knowing something that Sherlock didn't, to have a plan and have Sherlock three steps behind rather than three steps in front- Jim couldn't keep the smile from his face.

And then the distraction. Jim knew that any smiles or body language giving away his hint of a lie would be attributed to his supposed madness. Sherlock and Mycroft were so stoic that when met by eccentricity the data was too much for them to handle. And of course, he wanted to test his theory. He knew it would work, his plan was too perfect not to, but only a fool fails to rehearse before the big show. One tiny little lie, 'I have a magical key code', wrapped in the layers of truth; the so called robberies; the big bad super villains of the world competing to take it from him. Sherlock swallowed the pill, lapped up the story like a smug cat drinking poisoned cream. Like with the missile plans in the pool, the distraction of intelligent information would be the death of Sherlock Holmes, Jim would make sure of it.

"What's this all for?" Sherlock asked, and it took all of Moriarty's self-control to prevent himself from screaming her name and driving the penknife straight into Sherlock's heart. Instead he pierced the flesh of the apple, imagining that the juice on his fingers was Sherlock's blood.

"It's to solve the problem-  _our_ problem. The Final Problem." The problem in which they lived when she was dead. To which the only solution was Sherlock's violent death. He stabbed the apple once more. "It's going to start very soon Sherlock. The fall. But don't be scared. Fallings just like flying but with a more permanent destination."

They both understood, and Jim could see it in Sherlock's eyes that the reference to Myrna's favourite story had rattled him. Probably he thought that he was the only one Myrna told that story to. Or that Jim had somehow spied on those intimate moments. Or perhaps that Jim could read the thoughts that ought to be perfectly safe encased inside his brain. Sherlock stood up, buttoning his jacket. Evidently their interview was over.

"Never liked riddles."

"Learn to. Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I. Owe. You." For taking away Myrna. For snatching away that connection he had to his real family. For stealing the only form of happiness he had. They could have been the perfect team, but that idea evaporated in the heat of the car bomb Sherlock planted. Yes, Sherlock needed to learn to like riddles, and to decipher this one. Because he was going to die, violently and in disgrace, and he needed to know exactly why.

Moriarty left, and Sherlock didn't trouble himself to see his uninvited guest to the door. The apple that he had been nibbling on still sat on the arm of the chair, the knife still in it. Sherlock picked it up and looked at the letters carved into it. Even John, who missed everything of importance, would be able to solve this riddle if he held all of the information. I.O.U. carved onto Myrna's favourite fruit alongside references to the fairy tales she used to love. Sherlock decided, right then, that investigating the cause of Moriarty's desire to avenge Myrna's death wasn't the important issue. All he needed to focus on was ensuring everyone got out alive.


	8. Molly's Lab

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd and rescued by the fantastic ShinySherlock :)

Molly was a little startled when Sherlock and John turned up at her lab. Apart from a brief phone call from John to say that he was alive and didn't blame her in the slightest for the events in the pool, she had barely spoken to them. There had been the events of Christmas, of course, but if anything that had just made things even more awkward between them. She couldn't avoid hearing updates on their lives even if she tried; she got all the information she could ever want and more from Lestrade, John's blog and the front page of every newspaper in the country. And outside the country actually; she'd visited France for a weekend last month and found that almost every shop sold "Chapeau de Sherlock" alongside newspapers with pictures of him wearing the stupid thing.

"I'm going out, I have a lunch date."

"Cancel it; you're having lunch with me."

He hadn't changed too much. He was still as callous and self-centred as he always was, so the fame hadn't altered him. Worse, having been away from her for so long, when not concentrating he called her 'John'. She tried to restrain herself from correcting him, as she didn't want to break his concentration, and there were missing children to be found after all.

All the time he was working, he was mumbling to himself. That was normal, he had always thought out loud, but today he didn't just talk to the evidence or talk himself through his thought process making leaps that only he understood. He kept saying something, over and over, tapping on the table or the equipment in a funny little pattern. At first she couldn't quite make it out, but eventually she pieced it together.

"What did you mean, 'I owe you'?" The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Sherlock glanced at John as he walked past, almost as though he was nervous the other man might have heard. This glance more than anything set alarm bells ringing in her head. Sherlock didn't hide things from John.

"You said 'I owe you'. You were muttering it while you were working?"

"Nothing. Mental note."

Sherlock was hiding something, an unusual crime had been committed and Jim Moriarty was on the loose. If these things were connected then Molly needed to know. She hesitated, trying to figure out what and how much to tell him. After all, all she had was a mobile number on a plain business card with the order to ring it if Sherlock was ever in danger. And the names of the three servants- Morgan, Addison and… oh, what was the other one? Raleigh? Something like that. She couldn't be sure they were even their real names, they could be code names. They didn't look much like spies, but given what Mycroft did for a living it wouldn't be too much of a leap. If she said that out loud then anyone listening would think she'd gone mad.

She had to try and explain it to him another way.

"You're a bit like my dad. He's dead." She stopped herself, realising what her words had somehow implied. "No, sorry-"

"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation, it's really not your area."

He was right; she never could find the right words. Maybe that was one of the reasons Sherlock preferred John. But she needed to say this, it was important. He had managed to get her name right though, so at least he was paying attention.

"When he was ... dying, he was always cheerful; he was lovely – except when he thought no-one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad."

"Molly…"

"You look sad ... when you think he can't see you."

Sherlock's eyes drifted across the room, to where John stood unaware of their conversation. She could see in his face that it was true. Something was wrong and he didn't want John to worry. Maybe he wasn't dying, but it had to be serious to rattle Sherlock. She might not be as smart as him, but it didn't take a genius to connect his actions to some plan of Moriarty's that probably only Sherlock understood.

"Are you ok? And don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no-one can see you."

"You can see me." Of course, Sherlock had to be pedantic, find the tiniest loophole in a phrase and use it to wriggle out of answering a question.

"I don't count." Sherlock just blinked at her. For the first time since she had met him, she had rendered him speechless, shocked him into silence. Perhaps it was the effect of John's tutoring on human emotion, meaning that he recognised her unhappiness, or maybe even because he knew as well as she did that it was the truth, Sherlock said nothing. Perhaps this was why the veiled woman had singled her out; she was close enough to see Sherlock but far enough away that he would never bother to try and protect her.

"What I'm trying to say is that, if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me." She hesitated. That had come out wrong, the meaning had twisted itself "No, I just mean ... I mean if there's anything you need ..." The words wouldn't come. He had been unkind to say it, but he had been right in stating that she wasn't good at knowing what to say. Her nerves got the better of her and she lost her train of thought. She sighed. "It's fine."

"What could I need from you?"

This was her moment. If she was going to tell him, now was her chance. But, what did she really have to tell? She didn't know the woman's name, hadn't seen her face, hadn't been able to drag any meaningful information out of the bodyguard who had accompanied her home. And she had been specifically told not to tell any member of the Holmes family. Maybe she should follow that command, just for a little longer, and gather a little more evidence.

"Nothing." She replied, hoping that Sherlock was too shocked by her words to do his usual mind games and decipher what was going on inside her head. "You could probably say thank you, actually."

There. There in the twitch of his lips before he did as she asked. He had read something in her eyes and was confused about the meaning. She had to leave, before she gave away anything else.

"I'm going to get some crisps, do you want anything? It's ok, I know you don't." If she had to bring him something then she would have to come back with something, but she really needed to get some fresh air, rid her head of the thoughts that Sherlock could always somehow read.

"Well actually, maybe I'll-"

"I know you don't."

She grabbed her things and left as fast as she could without being conspicuous. Down the hall, up the stairs, turn left, turn right, more stairs, security booth, front door. Before she knew where she was going or what she was doing, she was standing by her car. For a moment she just looked at it, before her brain caught up with what her eyes were trying to process. There was a tiny slip of paper under the windscreen wiper. No, not paper, card. A business card. She couldn't be sure, but it looked like the same as the anonymous woman's. It was the same font, the same size, no name, just a mobile number.

Was it a coincidence? After working with dead people and police officers for so long she didn't believe in them anymore. Why did everyone always know more than she did? Was the woman watching her? And if so why did she need someone to tell her when Sherlock was in danger? Surely she would know long before Molly did? Molly got most of her news from papers and Lestrade's latest grumblings.

For all Molly knew, it could be a journalist looking for a story. Or someone working for Moriarty looking to see how much Sherlock knew about his latest ploy. Molly picked up the card, intending to throw it away, but at the last second spotted something handwritten on the back in cursive writing.

_Look after him, Molly._

Molly sighed and pocketed the card. Whatever happened and whoever she went to for help, she knew that was one instruction she would be unable to stop herself from following.


	9. John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone direct praise and thanks to ShinySherlock, without whom in all probability this chapter would not be here and I would be a gibbering wreck.

Sherlock sat fuming, typing on John's laptop, trying to hack into the camera's signal line and trace where it sent its information to. John was distracting him. He wasn't speaking, but Sherlock could see him, just outside the line of his vision, thinking. People who weren't Sherlock always seemed to underestimate just how distracting it was to try and think when other people in the vicinity were thinking boring and unnecessary things.

"They'll be deciding." Sherlock told him. Most people, when he answered their thoughts, took it as an interruption, or assumed he was talking about something different entirely, but people who had known him for long enough, like John and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade knew enough to just go with it.

"Deciding?"

"Whether to come back with a warrant and arrest me."

"You think?" John asked. Sherlock didn't think, he knew.

"Standard procedure."

"Should have gone with him. People'll think-"

"I don't care what people think." John cared too much about what went on in the dull minds of others. 'People will talk' was almost his catchphrase.

"You'd care if they thought you were stupid, or wrong."

"No, that would just make them stupid or wrong."

And John was angry now, and that was always bad, because it meant he was very serious about what he was saying. Some of the things he got angry about were silly, like Sherlock leaving his socks in the shower, or chopping bits out of what turned out to be John's favourite trousers to use the material in an experiment. Or more important things, like when Sherlock made someone else angry, or when one of his plans put other people's lives in danger, no matter how briefly. John raising his voice almost always meant that, in John's humble opinion, a change in Sherlock's behaviour was needed.

"Sherlock, I don't want the world believing you're-" There. There in his eyes, under the friendly concern and the worry of not really knowing what was going on, Sherlock saw it. Doubt. Not just Arthur and the knights who had their concerns about Sir Boast-a-lot then.

"That I'm what?"

"A fraud." To give John credit, even saying the words seemed to cause him pain. But doubt, once it sets in, is powerful, and eats away at truth and reason, however sound the logic.

"You're worried they're right."

"What?"

"You're worried they're right about me."

"No."

"That's why you're so upset. You can't even entertain the possibility that they might be right. You're afraid that you've been taken in as well." If they could get to John, they could get to anyone. John, the one person in this world who he could truly call his friend. The only person who truly classed Sherlock as a friend. If they could get to him, then there truly was no hope. John couldn't even look him in the eye anymore, and stood staring out of the window like a puppy waiting for its owner to come home.

"No I'm not."

"Moriarty is playing with your mind too!" Sherlock slammed his fist down on the table in fury. Why was he the only one who understood? "Can't you see what's going on?!"

"Now I know you're for real." John responded calmly, still gazing out of the window.

"One hundred per cent?"

"Well no one could fake being such an annoying dick  _all_  the time."

Despite everything, the anger and resentment and fear, Sherlock smiled. Moriarty had failed at the final hurdle; there was no fooling John. John. Caring, kind, compassionate John. Woolly jumpers and tea and scuffed brown shoes, all coming together to make something that Sherlock couldn't describe as anything but John. He was like nobody else on earth. And Sherlock was going to die for him.

That was what it was going to come down to, wasn't it? Moriarty wouldn't let it be any other way. John had killed for Sherlock, and now Sherlock would die for John. Quietly going along with a madman's plan, because if the madman was thwarted, Sherlock knew who his anger would be taken out on.

What would his sister think? He found himself wondering. Myrna had been the topic of so many of his thoughts lately, because she was somehow intricately woven into the events that were playing out around them. She had died 31 years ago and yet she still seemed to influence his day to day life.

Mycroft seemed to think of John as a convenience, keeping an eye on Sherlock so that he didn't have to. But Myrna was more adept at emotion. She would have recognised John's many admirable qualities and understood what he meant to Sherlock. She may have seen him as a useful tool in advancing Sherlock's emotional intelligence, but that would not have stopped her appreciating the man himself. And the respect would have been mutual, because John would be helpless to resist the attraction of her beautiful brilliance. Yes, Sherlock decided, they would have approved of each other, and they may even have been good friends. But then, it didn't really matter. Myrna was dead, and unless Sherlock played his cards right, John would be too.

John's phone rang, and John answered but said nothing, just listened for a minute before hanging up.

"So, still got some friends on the Force. That was Lestrade. Says they're all coming over here right now, queuing up to slap on the handcuffs: every single officer you ever made feel like a tit, which is a lot of people."

Before Sherlock could do nothing for long enough to show John he was ignoring this comment, Mrs Hudson wandered in through the door, making her customary high pitched monosyllabic sounds as she did so. She stopped short, possibly noticing the tense atmosphere in the room, mostly created by John's hovering.

"Oh, sorry, am I interrupting?" she asked, clearly not realising the stupidity of such a statement. She knew the bare bones of what was going on and likely wanted more details to gossip about to her friend Mrs Turner next door. "Some chap delivered a parcel. I forgot. Marked 'Perishable' – I had to sign for it." As she handed the package to John, Sherlock noticed the seal. John noticed it too, and glanced behind him, almost nervously. This was a message. And Sherlock didn't need Mrs Hudson's next statement to know the identity of the sender. "Funny name. German. Like the fairy-tales."

That was it, that last word. It forced Sherlock into action. That word spelled out Moriarty and Myrna and danger and death. John pulled out the contents of the parcel, and for a moment the three of them just stared at it.

A gingerbread man. Shop-bought, by the looks of it, but home decorated. Someone had coloured it in with what looked like felt tip pen, even drawing on the smarties down the middle. Crude, but the meaning was clear. A reminder of the fairy-tale they were living through. Moriarty had set it all up like a stage production and cast Sherlock as the Evil Witch. Gretal had screamed, figuratively pushing Sherlock into the fire where Moriarty intended him to burn.

"Burned to a crisp." Sherlock told them. He almost smiled; the gingerbread man looked nothing like him. And then it hit him. How had he not realised it? It wasn't meant to look like him.

It was meant to look like John.

Moriarty didn't want to burn him, he had never said that, it was just the meaning Sherlock had inferred. Oh, what had he said, in the pool, about his heart?

" _I will burn the heart out of you."_

" _I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."_

" _Oh we both know that's not true."_

John. This had been about John all along. Why hadn't he seen it?! Quietly allowing himself to be caught up in the trap was not enough. Moriarty wanted John as well. In the pool, it had been John strapped to the bomb. If Moriarty was after Sherlock then why not strap the explosives to him? But if Jim simply wanted them dead they would have been long gone by now. No, this was about feelings and emotions and revenge. Sherlock would have to do something, and quickly, if John was going to come out of this alive.

"What does it mean?" John asked.

Sherlock was saved from not answering by a frantic knocking on the front door. They had their warrant then. There was only one thing to be done. He had been taught not to allow his heart to rule his head, but his heart was in danger, and no man can survive without one.

Mrs Hudson went downstairs to let the rabble in. Half the force awaited him, baying for his blood. He would let them have their way, for now at least. He grabbed his coat and scarf and put them on ready. He would let them arrest him, escape custody (preferably before the arduous questioning), have Mycroft station protection around John, and then go on to face Moriarty. They had exchanged numbers after all; he wouldn't be too hard to track down. In fact, maybe he could get John arrested too, save him the trouble of having to contact Mycroft.

Mrs Hudson was twittering on and making a bit of a fuss, and John was clearly upset, but it had to be done. Sherlock had to get himself away from them or they could be hurt. Trying not to think about the fact that this could be the last time he saw any of them and this could be the last time they saw him alive, Sherlock struggled to maintain his dignity and composure as he was led out of the flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note for Americans; the smarties on the gingerbread man aren't the tart sweets you have, they're sugared chocolate drops, very much like M&Ms :)


	10. Molly's Call

Sherlock stood in the shadows as Molly came out of a small side room in the lab, switched off the lights and walked across the darkened room, sighing tiredly. Her day was at an end, and she was looking forward to home and bed. Human comforts. He almost let her leave, let her go home in safety, not adding his burden to her woes. She was reaching for the door handle when he finally spoke.

"You're wrong, you know." He heard her sharp intake of breath. "You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you." He turned to look at her. She was confused, and a little startled. "But you were right. I'm not okay."

"Tell me what's wrong." There was a hint of fear in her eyes, but not for herself; for him. Concern. He walked towards her, ever so slowly.

"Molly, I think I'm going to die." He didn't think, he knew, but he didn't want to put her off helping. When she had spoken to him before she had no idea just how right she was. He didn't need to hide himself from her, and she had seen something human in him. More than that, she had observed the meaning.

"What do you need?"

"If I wasn't everything that you think I am – everything that I think I am – would you still want to help me?" Because he was tricking her. There was no hope, not really, not if he was going to save John. She had met Moriarty, she would know that what it said in the papers was all a lie, he had no doubt about that. But she thought he was wonderful. She thought there was no puzzle that he couldn't solve. And he was about to prove her wrong.

"What do you need?" she repeated.

"You. You know something."

Molly stared at him. She was tense, her eyes wide and her hands shaking slightly "I don't, not really" she replied, a slight quaver in her voice. She was anxious, but not lying. She knew something, but perhaps didn't know the importance of her knowledge, or whether it was worth bothering him with. But there, in the way she held on to her coat; fear.

She backed away from him, and put her bag down on the work bench. Sherlock stayed where he was, obscured by the shadows.

Molly knew something. In the lab that day, her eyes kept flickering unconsciously to one of the seats, indicating a memory associated with it. And now, her body language suggested that there was something in her bag that she wished to protect from him.

She looked up at him, clearly deliberating whether she should give up her evidence.

"Where's John?" she asked, trying to change the subject, possibly to give her more time to decide how much to tell him.

"Safe, for now. Molly, you know something. I have a better chance of saving him if you tell me what you know."

Hesitation. Frown. Tightening of grip on bag. What had she seen? What had she found?

"I think they're watching me, and she told me not to tell you." Molly murmured softly.

Sherlock's mind was sent spinning. He walked over to her and crouched down before her so that his face was at her eye level.

"Who?" Mycroft? Moriarty? Some yet unknown foe?

"I don't know" Molly answered, looking him in the eye. Her shoulders were relaxed and her expression was solemn. She was telling the truth.

Sherlock grabbed a chair and seated himself close to her, so that she could see him without his having to switch on the light, and waited for her to elaborate.

"She came in here, months ago, the night you were almost blown up." Sherlock almost asked her which time, but assumed she was referring to the night in the pool, and not wishing to interrupt her tale, stayed silent. "There were four of them, her and three men. One of them was a driver, in a proper chauffeur uniform with a hat; one was a big guy, some sort of bodyguard; and one was like a PA. She had this black veil over her head, so I didn't see her face, but she was so clearly in charge… She knew who I was, and that I knew you, and she knew about Jim and about John, and she told me to keep an eye on you because you were in danger, and then had to go because there was a development and then an hour later I found out you were both almost killed-"

Molly took a breath and Sherlock tried to process this information. A woman? He didn't know many women, and the ones he did could be ruled out almost immediately. Mrs Hudson, too innocent to come up with such a plot. Irene Adler, too vain to cover her face for the duration of the interview. Sally Donovan, too stupid to know what was going on. Who then?

Molly glanced at her bag again.

"Did she leave it behind or did she give it to you?" he asked, and she stared at him as if she had just seen a ghost. Of course, the glance was subconscious, and now she thought he was reading her mind. The minds of people who weren't him were so routine, it was hardly difficult to predict.

"Gave it to me. Well, the first one. The second one was on my car the day those kids went missing. I think she knew you were here."

Sherlock wished he really could read minds, then he might be able to get to the bottom of this a little quicker. Then again, what with the dozens of monotonous thoughts that went around their brains, he would probably lose the will to live within hours. But considering the number of hours he had left to live was quickly approaching zero, it might be worth it.

Slowly, hands shaking, Molly opened her bag, and from a zip-up pocket pulled out two identical plain white business cards, each with the same mobile number printed on them. 12 pt thickness. Average size, 89mm by 55mm. Aqueous coating. Times New Roman font. Standard in every way possible. Handwritten note on the back of one- 'Look after him, Molly'. Expensive wide nibbed fountain pen. No slant, closed loop on letter 'L'. Writer of above average intelligence but under large amounts of pressure or stress.

"She said to ring if you were ever in danger, but not to tell anyone, especially not your brother. The bodyguard took me home, drove my car."

"Bodyguard have a name?"

"Raleigh? Or Carey maybe, I'm not sure about him. He only said 'yes' and 'no' the whole drive."

"The others have names? And what did they call her? Think Molly!"

Molly frowned. "They called the woman 'ma'am'. The driver was Addison, I remember because of Anderson. And the PA guy was Morgan. I don't know if they were real names though, or if they were code names-"

Sherlock shook his head. These names meant nothing to him. There was no pattern in them, reducing the possibility of codes, as Molly suggested. It also further reduced the possibility that he knew any of these people.

Friend or foe. That was the question he had to answer. The question dictating his next move. Offered assistance. Rushed off upon hearing they were in danger, never arrived. Incited fear in Molly. Hidden identity. An associate of Moriarty? Or the person who phoned him in the pool? Above average intelligence. Hidden agenda. Actually wanting to help? Moriarty's way of finding out how much he knew? The pros and cons equalled each other out. There was only one way to know for sure.

He put one of the cards on the bench, placed his phone next to it, and slid them over to Molly. She stared at them both for a moment, before slowly raising her eyes to meet his. It was too late for him, but if this stranger could do anything at all to protect John, it had to be attempted.

"I'm going to die, Molly. Make the call."

He could see the fear in her face, but there was trust there too. She trusted his judgement.

Molly slowly and carefully dialled the number, and raised the phone to her ear.

"He-hello? It's Molly. Hooper. You said to phone if I thought Sherlock was in danger. Well… he is. He needs your help."


	11. "Oh Lord, There's Two of You"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the truly invaluable ShinySherlock

Morgan knew it was serious when Myrna stopped eating.

It had happened before; most recently in the immediate aftermath of the trial when she had tried to figure out Moriarty's next move, but that had been almost expected and Morgan had opportunistically given the chef, Monsieur Defoux, the week off. This time, there had been next to no warning; Sherlock was due to be arrested, and they had an infallible plan to break him out, keeping him away from James Moriarty, but at the last moment, just before he and his flatmate were put in the back of the police car, Sherlock took things into his own hands and the pair ran off into the night. Nobody knew where they were or what had become of them in the hours since. With no planning time, Morgan was left to care for the broken-minded employer as well as attempting to assuage the fears and concerns of the staff.

When this happened, the PA never really felt badly done to, even with the understanding that most other people would. Myrna had the misfortune to have both the knowledge and the ability to emotionally process the impact of the scenarios she foresaw, as well as coping with the fallout when her more risky (yet still brilliant) plans went wrong. Sometimes it was too much for one person to handle, no matter how amazing that person may be. And Myrna had been through a lot, to be fair; most people would have crumbled after the accident Myrna had survived, but she carried on through it, using it to her advantage as she protected her brothers and other people she cared about from a distance. Only looking, never touching. The assistant didn't imagine for a second that it was easy for her.

This particular evening, Myrna was sat on the window seat in the bay, her knees drawn up under her chin in the most unladylike fashion, the cup of tea Morgan had brought her that afternoon sitting untouched and stone cold, despite the fact that it was in her favourite cup. In fact she didn't appear to have moved a muscle all day. She wasn't wearing a veil either, despite the fact that the sun had dried out the delicate skin on her damaged face, which Morgan knew caused her acute pain.

"Monsieur Defoux expressed concern that you've gone off his cooking as you've eaten so little of it recently. And Amy commented that your bed didn't look as though you'd slept in it last night, or in fact any night this week. And Bailey and Addison are getting restless; you've barely left the house."

No response.

Morgan sighed and took the tub of salve out of the top drawer. She was supposed to apply it daily, but it appeared to have been forgotten about.

"Your forehead looks a bit sore." Morgan said pointedly, but still received no response. Not one to be put off, Morgan took one of Myrna's hands and gently applied a little of the blue gel to it. Myrna slowly turned her head to look at her assistant, a dazed look in her eyes. Morgan smiled slightly, but knew that they weren't there yet; though Myrna was paying attention now, the reaction was no more than a baby following a light around a room. Not that Morgan knew much about babies.

The assistant sat down on the window seat and gently dabbed the salve on to Myrna's damaged skin. Many people were shocked and horrified the first time they saw her face. She pretended that she wore the veil because she couldn't risk even the idea that he ought to be suspicious to enter her brothers' heads. But Morgan knew it was because it hurt her to see people recoil at her scars. Morgan had once fired a cleaner on the spot for staring at Myrna's un-gloved hands.

Morgan had been shocked the first time he saw her. He had literally been thrown in at the deep end, as she didn't wear a mask or veil during the interview, and had said years later that one of the reasons she had hired him was because of how well he handled himself around her. Morgan was no longer phased by his employer's looks. She was mesmerising to him. Where others saw damage, he saw a piece of artwork; he was forever seeing new patterns and meanings in the lines on her face. She didn't flinch away as he massaged the tight skin, though he knew he was probably hurting her.

"We'll find him, Myrna."

It felt oddly too familiar, being sat so close to her, offering her comforting words, calling her by her first name. In the beginning he had called her 'Miss Holmes', but she had requested he stop; she didn't want to risk anyone overhearing her answering to that name. He shouldn't be acting like her friend- he was just her employee after all. He thought that she was wonderful, but was very conscious of the professional distance he had to maintain. He'd go mad without it.

"And when we do, then what?" Myrna whispered in her husky voice. "I can't kill him."

It took Morgan half a second to work out what she was talking about. He had assumed that Myrna was worried about Sherlock, which she probably was, but apparently she was just as worried about James.

"He saved my life, Morgan. His presence is the reason I'm not dead. How can I kill him?"

Morgan knew the outline of how Myrna had sustained her injuries, but nobody had ever really told him the details. He knew enough to understand the reference she was making though; James had been stood at the end of the driveway with his father at the time of the explosion. Had he not been there then Myrna would have been inside the car when it blew up. It was a miracle she had survived as it was, there was no way she would have lived had that been the case.

He was saved from answering the question by the ringing of his work phone. Myrna's phone, technically; it was the number she gave out as her own. He glanced at the time and wondered who on earth would be calling him at this hour. It was an unknown number. Myrna had gone back to staring out of the window, so he answered the phone.

"Hello."

"He-hello? It's Molly. Hooper. You said to phone if I thought Sherlock was in danger. Well… he is. He needs your help."

Morgan stood in shock for a moment. Myrna noticed the change in his body language and turned to him, a questioning look on her face.

"Hold please." He told Molly.

"Morgan?" Myrna asked, more alert than she had been in hours.

"Molly Hooper. The woman who works in the lab your brother visits."

Myrna's eyes opened wide. She climbed to her feet and hobbled across to her desk, sitting in the carved wooden chair that sat behind it. Morgan sat the phone in front of her and put Molly on speaker phone.

"Miss Hooper," Morgan said, "you say Sherlock is in danger. What sort of danger?"

"He's… he's going to die." Molly's voice shook but there was no other way of interpreting her words.

"Where is he now? Is he with you?" Myrna asked.

"Yes, we're at my lab-" There was a man's voice in the distance as Sherlock spoke. Myrna visibly flinched and leaned in closer, straining to hear what he was saying. Morgan realised with a start that this must be the closest Myrna had been to her brother since they were children.

There was a rustling on the line and then it was Molly's voice that was background noise.

"Hello? Who are you? How do you know about me?" Sherlock had taken the phone and his voice filled the room. Myrna stared at the phone as if it might bite her and sat back in her chair, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Never mind that, Mr Holmes." Morgan said quickly, pretending not to notice how close to the melting point his employer was. "Miss Hooper said you are in danger. If we work together we can capture James Moriarty with minimal fallout."

"That won't be possible. I can't be saved, it's too late. Just… just save John. Moriarty targeted him before, he may still be a target even after I'm gone. After what happened to her he won't let me go."

"Nonsense, Mr Holmes" Myrna barked. Her voice was steady but her eyes were filling with tears. "Between us I'm sure we can work out his plan, and if we can do that then we can combat it." She made it sound so simple. Morgan knew that it would be no such thing.

"Why do you want to help me?" Sherlock asked.

"James Moriarty is a criminal Mr Holmes. Do you think you are the only person he has wronged?" She lied so smoothly. The assistant tried not to be concerned. "Now tell me what you know" she demanded.

"This is a personal vendetta. I wronged him. Do you still want to assist me?"

"Don't try my patience, Mr Holmes, I'm waiting."

"He has orchestrated my  _fall_. It will be both metaphorical and literal. He has delivered a story to the world defaming me and labelling me a criminal and a liar and next he plans to kill me so that I die in disgrace. He has used references to a fall several times, planting what he thinks to be a subconscious thought in my head. He wants me to meet him somewhere high and presumably will push me off the edge. Falling is just like flying. Or so I am told."

Myrna looked a little startled. Morgan didn't understand why. Clearly these words meant more to her than they did to him. "A more permanent destination" she whispered, more to herself than anyone else, and certainly not loud enough for Sherlock to hear. She thought for a minute and then smiled a small smile, her eyes brightening ever so slightly. "Mr Holmes, do you know the story of Icarus?"

"Flew too close to the sun?"

"We're going to make you Daedalus."

There was another moment of silence. Morgan didn't quite understand. He vaguely knew the story of Icarus but wasn't sure who Daedalus was. The dad maybe? Sherlock appeared to understand though.

"Molly could sort out the wings…"

"I thought she might. I'll text you the details."

"John-"

"Text me his number. We'll keep him away."

"He won't believe it unless he sees it."

Myrna frowned, a hint of pain in her eyes. "You don't want him to know?"

"I want him safe. He'll be safer if he doesn't know."

Myrna took a deep breath. "He may never forgive you."

"I don't care. He'll be alive."

Myrna nodded, though she was clearly unhappy with the proposed setup. "Very well. We'll arrange it."

She ended the call and sat back in her chair. The phone beeped but she didn't check it. When she looked up again, her face was unreadable. She picked up her cane from beneath her desk and climbed to her feet.

"Come along, Morgan. Let's go and repeat history."


	12. Icarus and Daedalus

It was Mother's birthday, and she was having a small party of sorts downstairs. James didn't mind. It meant Myrna was watching him until bedtime. Tonight she would tuck him in, and Sherlock would have to manage on his own.

The story he had requested tonight was one of Myrna's favourites, and James lay in bed with his eyes closed, picturing it all. It was based on a Greek Myth; a father and son locked in a tower, making wings from feathers and wax and flying to freedom.

"But the aerodynamics would be all wrong. And the weight of the wax would offset the-"

"It's a story James, it doesn't have to be scientifically perfect." She said with a sigh. "Besides, to the ancient Greeks, putting wings on people would have made them like angels, something I assume they simply couldn't resist."

"Ancient Greeks didn't have Christianity's angels. And angels are  _boring_."

Myrna laughed and ruffled his hair. "You're right, of course. You're too smart for me to try and trick you, my man." James beamed.

"He must have been scared, Icarus." James said thoughtfully.

"Because of the fall? Probably. But then, he was enjoying himself, and I assume falling feels just like flying."

"Painful landing though."

"Sherlock says it's just a more permanent destination."

James frowned at the reference to the other boy. If his mother would just admit that they were brothers then Myrna wouldn't be able to play favourites as she so clearly did.

"Besides," Myrna continued, "Icarus' fall probably aided Daedalus. When their captors found the body of poor Icarus they probably assumed both had met the same fate and stopped looking for Daedalus. Had the plan succeeded, they may both have been hunted until they were re-captured."

"The death of Icarus saved Daedalus."

"Exactly."

James thought about this for a moment. He wouldn't be willing to die to save his father, not his pretend one or his real one. Not his mother either, she lied to him. Maybe for Myrna though. He wasn't quite sure what he'd do without her. He idolised her, in every way. She smiled again, and stood up, her book falling to the floor as she did so.

"What is that?" he asked as she picked it up.

"My annotated version of the Grimm Fairy Tales that I'm giving that presentation on tomorrow. I'm sure I told you about it."

She had, briefly. She had recently graduated from Oxford, as her father had requested, receiving a first-with-honours in Mathematical Physics, but on the side she had been allowed to take a course in the Origins of Literature at Cambridge for her own amusement.

"I don't think you've told me any of the stories from that book though" he told her sulkily. No doubt she had told them all to Sherlock.

"It's not my fault if you never ask me about my work!" she said with a laugh. "You're too preoccupied with finding out about my brothers half the time." James flushed. He had thought he was being discreet, but she had clearly seen straight through him. He vowed to himself that he would work harder to ask more about her, and be more subtle when asking about their brothers. "Now, if you're quite finished, it's time for bed. You have school in the morning."

James frowned. "Do I have to?"

Myrna pursed her lips and sat back down on his bed, placing her book on his bedside table.

"Is that boy still causing you problems?"

"I could stop him if I wanted. I'm going to get one of the bigger boys to hurt him for me."

"You'll do no such thing. In fact, I forbid it James, do you hear me?" James nodded. Years later, this would be the first promise made to Myrna that he would break, and the bully would get exactly what he deserved.

"I'll speak to your teacher tomorrow. What's that boy's name, Kyle?"

"Carl."

"Carl, that's it. In fact, I'll speak to Daddy. You're far too smart for that school, it's entirely inappropriate. Now you go to sleep. I'll sort it all out."

She got up and turned out the light. James noticed, as she was closing the door, that she had left her book on his bedside table.

"Myrna!"

"Good night, James," she said pointedly. No matter, he thought. He'd get up early and take it to her house. And wish her luck in her presentation. And tell her that maybe Icarus wasn't so bad after all. The music from the party downstairs seemed to fade away, as James drifted into sleep.

The next morning, James got up especially early to take Myrna her book. Mother had gone to the house already but the man he called Father agreed to take him. James would have gone anyway, but it seemed best to observe the formalities.

James practically ran all the way to the Holmes residence, just up the hill from the cottage he lived in. She was walking out of the house as James walked up the driveway. He could see Sherlock through one of the windows. His mother would later tell him how agitated 'poor' Sherlock was, and how he seemed to know what was going to happen. She had still pitied him when it was all proven to be Sherlock's fault.

She opened the car door, and he called out to her. She stopped and looked around, smiling and raising her arm to wave to him. And that's when it happened. James didn't remember screaming, but he supposed he must have. In that moment his entire world was destroyed. His father ran up and grabbed him, pulling him away from the scene, so that they could pretend they hadn't been there. Father hadn't seen the girl smiling and waving, just the explosion. James would remember that moment for the rest of his life. Every detail was etched into his brain. He would smell the burning flesh every night as he tried to sleep, and see the silhouette of the guilty boy at the window every time he closed his eyes.

Sherlock Holmes had killed her. He didn't deny it, or appear remotely repentant. He could have saved her, made more of an effort to stop her, offered to take her place, but he didn't. James would have. James would have saved her life.

From that day on, the only thought that kept James going was the thought that one day, Sherlock would pay for what he had done. James would make him pay. He had taken the one good thing in his life and burned it. He owed Sherlock that same pain in return.


	13. The Roof

Myra went over the plan one final time. Every eventuality appeared to be accounted for, every twist James could conceivably throw at them countermanded. She and Sherlock made a perfect team, but their practice runs had been purely hypothetical scenarios and over thirty years ago. They could not get this wrong.

They communicated by text. Morgan sent most of hers so that there would be no slip ups with recognisable phrasing. Yesterday had also been the first time she had been happy about how much her voice had changed; there was no chance of Sherlock associating the gruff tone she now spoke in with the girlish giggle of her youth.

Something bothered her about that phone call though. It was the first time she had spoken to her brother in thirty years, but as she had watched him so closely she had believed she still knew him quite well. She did expect him to have changed over the years, but she had always thought that there were some traits that were so distinctly 'Holmes' that they would never be lost. Their self-preservation instinct was quite literally at the top of this list. She could think of countless examples, from before and after her death. The family name, the family honour, the family reputation, it was the first thing to be considered before any action. It had led her parents to allow the world to think that their daughter was dead. She literally could not be allowed to show her face as it now was in public.

But Sherlock had flat out ignored this instinct. He had given up on any trails of thought that led to his survival, because he believed they would lead John into danger. He was literally willing to sacrifice himself, to lose the game, for another person. A person who wasn't even part of the family.

It was almost unheard of. In fact, it WAS unheard of.

 _Just save John._ That was what her brother had said. That was his main priority upon finding out the full extent of the wondered, not for the first time, what made this man so special. He had been in the army, so he was clearly brave. He was medical, so calm under pressure. He had killed people to save Sherlock, so loyal. He had stuck around for over a year, so patient. But these were just generalisations; she didn't know the man himself. She wished she could.

Morgan was outside the door, hovering, preparing himself to come in and tell her that it was time. He thought she couldn't tell when he was there, but his footsteps were so loud that even with her damaged hearing she knew where in the house he was at all times. It was reassuring.

Would she do it she wondered? Would she give her life for Morgan? He was her equivalent of John, wasn't he? He was paid when John wasn't, but that was the only difference. He was a constant presence in her life, and often the only person she saw or spoke to on any given day. Was that what John did for Sherlock, offer human contact to a person who otherwise might have none? It had been so long that she couldn't quite remember what she had done without him. Did Sherlock feel the same about John?

Would she do it? If she knew her brothers were safe, if they would come to no harm because if her actions. And it would likely be her fault, these things normally were, and it made no sense for Morgan to suffer for her actions. She liked to think that she would. Of course, it took the experience itself to know for sure what a person was made of, but she liked to think she had proven herself able to face such things. And for Sherlock it meant more; at least he had a life. For all intents and purposes she was dead; Sherlock had friends and a job and hobbies and  _fun._  Yet he was willing to throw it all away for a man he had known for barely a year.

Morgan knocked and opened the door, standing awkwardly out in the half-light of the hallway, desperately clinging to a file of papers for comfort. It was time. She nodded and the assistant stepped cautiously forward. She typed out a text and sent it. She had barely laid it back on the desk when the reply came through. Morgan knew the next step and picked up the phone.

Myrna's breath quickened. She had serious misgivings about this part of their plan. Sherlock obviously cared deeply for John so it made sense that John would feel the same about Sherlock, and yet Sherlock was going to force the pain of loss onto the poor man. She wanted to explain to him how wrong his actions were, but she didn't know where to start without admitting that she herself had done almost the same thing. It was too risky. He could work out her identity. It was selfish but he couldn't be allowed to know that she was his sister and that she was alive. She just couldn't face it.

Morgan dialled the number and waited. There tense silence seemed to last for an age, but Doctor Watson was not one to ignore a call even if it was from an unknown number.

"Hello, can I speak to John Watson?... I'm a paramedic, I'm at your home with Martha Hudson, you're listed as her emergency contact… Not too good, there's been an incident with a firearm. I think it would be best if you came here. She might not last long... See you soon then."

Morgan's voice in no way matched his body language. His muscles were tense and stiff, the corners of his mouth were pulled down and his eyes were wide with his pupils dilated. But his voice was smooth, strong and confident, with a hint of practiced reassurance. A perfect voice actor. Her PA was perfect in so many ways. But if he did it, if he faked his death, she would hate him. Some things cannot be forgiven.

She leaned back in her seat. That was it. All done. It was out of her hands now. Everything was in place and all she could do was wait, and hope to hear that it had all worked out how it was supposed to.

* * *

Early morning had been Myrna's favourite time of day, and as he approached Moriarty on the rooftop, Sherlock could almost understand why. It was almost summer, but the sun had not yet warmed the air, leaving it sharp and clear. He could see half of London from this vantage point, and it was so still and quiet that it was almost peaceful. He himself thrived on action and adrenaline, but his sister would have found the atmosphere relaxing; the perfect environment to sit with a book on her lap.

Moriarty wasn't even attempting to appreciate his surroundings. He was like a moody teenager, hunched over with his music blaring in his ears. Even his sharp suit and slicked-back hair weren't quite enough to break the illusion of a sulking child. He didn't look up as Sherlock approached.

"Here we are at last; you and me, Sherlock, and our problem. The final problem."

He held up the music player and Sherlock could just make out the song that was playing. It was the same song that had baffled him in the pool when it had made an unexpected appearance as Moriarty's ringtone.

"Staying alive! It's so boring, isn't it?" Moriarty hit a button with undue violence and the music was cut off. "It's just ... staying."

He used his hand to draw a line in the air, a straight flat line. Sherlock wanted to tell him that people make choices and these choices lead to the ups and downs in life, but John would have told him to keep his smart mouth shut, and in this moment he chose to take his friend's advice.

"All my life I've been searching for distractions. You were the best distraction and now I don't even have you. Because I've beaten you."

Sherlock turned his head and stared at his opponent, keeping up the vital pretence that he didn't know how events were going to pan out. He could guess what the mad man was talking about; he too had spent most of his days searching for things that distracted him enough to keep away the nightmares when he eventually slept.

"And you know what? In the end it was easy. It was easy. Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people. And it turns out you're ordinary just like all of them."

Jim put his head in his hands. He couldn't help being annoyed by how easy it was proving to trick Sherlock, how little it had taken to make Sherlock fall for his ploy, if you'll excuse the pun. He had assumed that Sherlock was something special, someone who deserved the great love that Myrna showed him, but he was just the same as anyone else. Clearly she doted on him because of his status as her brother and for that alone.

"Ah well." he whispered.

He climbed to his feet and began walking in slow circles around the great detective, like a wild cat circling its prey.

"Did you almost start to wonder if I was real? Did I nearly get you?" He had him in other ways, but Jim wanted to know how far he had managed to work his way into his enemy's brain.

"Richard Brook." Sherlock muttered.

"Nobody seems to get the joke, but you do." It was hardly difficult, and the grand school Sherlock had been sent to taught him languages. A bi-lingual monkey could work it out.

"Of course."

"Attaboy."

"Rich Brook in German is Reichen Bach – the case that made my name." Homage paid to the moment the world started appreciating Sherlock's actions when Jim had been surpassing him for years while remaining in the shadows.

"Just tryin' to have some fun." Jim said, in a fake American accent. Sherlock suppressed a smile. Fun: the absence of boredom. The very thing that they claimed had brought them to this spot. Neither of them seemed to want to sully her name and so this was the excuse that they would use to justify their actions. Each of the men thought themselves noble but knew that the rest of the world would see them as petulant children. But that didn't matter; the rest of the world would never understand anyway.

"Now, shall we finish the game? One final act. Glad you chose a tall building – nice way to do it."

"Do it? Do – do what?" Sherlock feigned confusion, replicating the expression on John's face when he first woke up. He blinked a few times and nodded with sudden understanding. " Yes, of course. My suicide."

" _Genius detective proved to be a fraud_. I read it in the paper, so it must be true. I love newspapers. Fairy tales."

Sherlock walked over to the edge of the roof and leaned forward, looking over the side to the ground below. It was a long way down. He was glad he wasn't actually required to make a leap of faith. Jim joined him and looked over the side as well.

"And pretty Grimm ones too." He looked over at Sherlock for a reaction to the name of the authors Myrna was last studying, and was disappointed by the lack thereof; not even a hint of a flinch, not a hint of understanding. Was Sherlock that good an actor or did he actually not care? Did he not know, did he not remember? Did he care at all?

"I can still prove that you created an entirely false identity." Sherlock told him matter-of-factly.

Jim suppressed a sigh. Did this idiot realise that there was no point in proving anything? None of that stuff mattered, it was all decoration surrounding the true aim; the just and symbolic execution of a murderer. "Oh, just kill yourself. It's a lot less effort."

Sherlock started pacing the roof, deep in thought.

"Go on. For me. Pleeeeeease?" Mimicking Myrna when she was begging daddy for something finally, elicited a reaction from the taller man. Sherlock flew at him and grabbed him by his lapels, practically lifting him off the ground. For a heart-wrenching moment, Jim thought that Sherlock was going to throw him over the side, but he apparently didn't have the guts for something so bold and impulsive.

"You're insane" Sherlock growled.

"You're just getting that now?" Jim asked, honestly baffled. How messed up in the head do you have to be to not suspect mental illness in a man who blows people up and calls it a hobby? And it was Sherlock's actions that robbed him of his sanity in the first place. The man was supposed to be smart but he couldn't make even that simple connection, when Jim was working so hard to make it so obvious.

Sherlock dragged him a step closer to the edge, but still didn't quite have it in him to throw him off, or even to jump while dragging his nemesis with him. Jim waited, but it didn't happen. He was all talk and floppy hair, behind his puppy dog eyes he really was just a puppy.

"Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive" Jim said, his voice barely more than a whisper. He was looking forward to this. He wished he had a camera because Sherlock's little face was going to be a picture. "Your friends will die if you don't."

Fear appeared in Sherlock's eyes and Jim couldn't quell his gleeful smile at the sight of it.

"John."

"Not just John. Everyone."

"Mrs Hudson."

"Everyone" Jim whispered again, delighted at how much pain his words were causing. The full extent of the devilry was becoming clear to Sherlock and it was so many times more evil and devious than anyone could have predicted.

"Lestrade."

"Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims. There's no stopping them now."

Jim waited for it, for the meaning to sink in. Waited for the logical conclusion to permeate Sherlock's thick skull and the lurch towards death it must surely bring. However, it had the opposite effect. Sherlock was apparently a caveman; he couldn't think and threaten at the same time, and so let go of Jim's lapels in order to contemplate the true extent of the situation. Jim was torn between his hate and anger and a smug satisfaction that his plan was inescapable and vengeance would be had one way or the other.

"Unless my people see you jump."

Sherlock didn't look at him, he just stared off into space. Jim couldn't stop himself from smiling. He had won. If Sherlock accepted it, Sherlock died. If Sherlock didn't accept it, his friends died, and after a few lonely weeks of being despised by the rest of the world (Jim would, of course, frame Sherlock for the three murders), Sherlock would kill himself. He didn't particularly care which route was taken, the end result was the same.

"You can have me arrested; you can torture me; you can do anything you like with me; but nothing's gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die ... unless-"

"-unless I kill myself. Complete your story." Sherlock interrupted.

Jim nodded, smiling to himself at the pained expression on Sherlock's face. Did he care this much when it was her? Did her death affect him this much?

"You've gotta admit that's sexier."

"And I die in disgrace."

"Of course. That's the point of this." A life for a life. Myrna and her murderer.

They looked over the edge at the little people below going about their boring morning routines, getting on and off of busses, strolling up and down the street. All so innocent, so oblivious. At least this would liven up their day a little.

"Oh, you've got an audience now. Off you pop." He rolled his head from side to side, stretching the muscles in his neck. "Go on." He encouraged, and was thrilled when Sherlock did as he was told and stepped up on to the ledge. He tried to contain his excitement. Sherlock was going to do this. It would all be over soon.

"I told you how this ends." Sherlock still looked unsure, cowardice making his whole body quake. If he was half the man Myrna though he was he would have just gone and done it by now. "Your death is the only thing that's gonna call off the killers. I'm certainly not gonna do it."

"Would you give me ... one moment, please; one moment of privacy? Please?"

Jim didn't even bother to try hiding his disappointment. "Of course." Sherlock may yet surprise him and jump. He walked away, giving Sherlock space to think, to weigh up the options and come to the conclusion that all was lost. To let the voices in his head tell him that he deserved this and there was no point in resisting.

He could hear Sherlock's breathing, which slowed and then descended into dry sobs. No, not sobs. Laughter. He stopped, furious. How, why would Sherlock be laughing? He was cornered, he would live a week if that and all that he held dear would be destroyed if he didn't kill himself within the hour. Why was he laughing? He spun around, resisting the overwhelming urge to run at Sherlock like a bull at a matador and knock him to the ground.

"What?" he demanded. Sherlock just carried on laughing, and the sound made Jim want to vomit. "What is it?" Sherlock half turned on the ledge, his body a stunning silhouette against the morning sky, his expression hidden in shadow. "What did I miss?"

Sherlock jumped back onto the roof, more jovial than anyone in his situation had any right to be.

" _You're not going to do it_. So the killers can be called off, then. There's a recall code or a word or a number."

Now Sherlock was the one doing the circling, and Jim felt like a scared rabbit trapped by a fox.

"I don't have to die ..." Premature smugness clouded Sherlock's voice and mind. "if I've got you" the taller man sang. Stupid, so stupid.

"Oh!" Jim laughed in relief. Sherlock almost had him worried there for a second. It was almost ok that Sherlock had created a strand of hope, because Jim was all too delighted to wound the man afresh by ripping it away from him. "You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?"

"Yes." Sherlock said, still circling, his pace as confident as his voice. "So do you."

"Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to" Jim reminded him, alluding to the time he had spent as Her Majesty's secret guest courtesy of Mycroft.

Sherlock stopped circling and looked Moriarty right in the eyes, hiding nothing. "Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you; prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn, prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."

Jim took in the words and processed all of the double meanings. Sherlock was willing to bring about his demise for her? Prepared to burn as she had. He knew that he would go to Hell for his actions, had accepted it long ago, but wanted to make his own way there. But no. Jim shook his head. If Sherlock was so willing then he would have done it by now. It wasn't like he hadn't had enough opportunities.

"Naah. You talk big. Naah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary, you're on the side of the angels." The innocent little angels who wandered about ignorant of how perfect the world could have been if she were still in it.

"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them." Sherlock had spent so many years integrating himself into the community of normal people, people who were unsullied with the pain and guilt of their past selves, had dedicated himself to rooting out their past ills to make himself feel better, but only managing to dig himself in deeper with the realisation that nobody, not one person, had done anything to compare with what he had done. He had killed his sister. He may have managed to make himself look and act like one of them to an extent, but what he had dome would forever keep him separate. He could see the same in the eyes of his enemy. They had both seen something so wonderful being ripped from the face of the earth and now could only view the world as a place where that light was absent.

They looked into each other's eyes, both of them seeing and deducing and recognising the internal familiarities. Moriarty recognised it, and Sherlock saw the flash of realisation when Moriarty saw that he was looking into a mirror.

"No, you're not." Jim finally agreed. "I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me." Sherlock wasn't a normal man. He wasn't even a normal man who had suffered a childhood trauma. He was just as mad, just as damaged by the passing of Myrna as Jim was. He heard himself laugh, but inside he just felt numb. He had spent his whole life trying to find a way to make Sherlock suffer as much as he had, and all that time Sherlock had been suffering in just the same way.

"You're me! Thank you!" He considered hugging the man, but that would be too much. After all, this was still Myrna's murderer. It didn't matter how much he had punished himself, he still deserved to crash and burn for what he had done. Instead he offered his hand.

"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock looked at the offered hand and took it cautiously, as though fearing a trick. Jim squeezed Sherlock's hand and smiled. His voice was soft, almost a whisper.

"Thank you. Bless you." His eyes darkened slightly, malice clouding the relief and joy. Had John seen it (he wouldn't have, John never noticed such things) he would certainly have called it a bit not good. A big bit not good.

"As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends; you've got a way out." Moriarty lowered his gaze, as though attempting to hide the evidence of his glee. He did consider, for half a second, accepting Sherlock's self-administered pain as his punishment, but he knew it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. He needed Sherlock Holmes dead.

"Well, good luck with that."

Jim had expected to feel something when this moment came. He had imagined it a thousand different ways. Perhaps that was why he felt so calm, so at peace. Sherlock was almost worthy of his sister's praise, and had suffered 30 years of internal torment. The world would soon despise his nemesis almost as much as he did, and not only would his death end his own pain, it would ensure Sherlock's downfall.

He gripped Sherlock's hand a little tighter, and with the other hand removed the gun he had concealed in the waistband of his trousers. Sherlock tried to protest, tried to pull away, but Jim didn't let him. As he put the gun in his open mouth, he looked straight into Sherlock's eyes and allowed the consequences of what was about to happen to dawn on his rival, pure triumph inflating his heart. He pulled the trigger.

Jim's hand went instantly slack and he dropped to the ground. Sherlock struggled to keep himself calm. He has foreseen this as a possibility, though it was the only one that he and his mysterious helper had not discussed. Perhaps it was overly idealistic, but he has decided that Moriarty wouldn't kill himself. Yes it was clear that he was willing to sacrifice himself in bringing about Sherlock's downfall, but the idea that he had no plans to come away from the rooftop had never really been considered as an option. Had it been Sherlock, he would have wanted to stick around to gloat over his victory. Psychological studies indicated that this was a normal human response. He had failed to consider that Moriarty wasn't a normal man.

A river of blood streamed across the roof, his final smile still etched across his lips but his eyes now cold and empty. It wasn't a trick. Sherlock knew a dead body when he saw one. There was no faking something like that at such a close range.

There was only one thing for it now. The time had come. He had hoped that it would not come to this, but that hope was illogical. This was the only possible outcome. He had been preparing for this moment for almost 12 hours, which was plenty of time to enable him to get it right. He approached the edge and made his signal to his co-conspirator.

His phone rang, and a man spoke, his tone casual and business like, as though he was discussing a meeting or plans for coffee with a friend.

"Everything is set. Whenever you're ready. The spy is on the building to the east watching through a rifle lens so don't dally too long."

"Is John close?"

"He's just round the corner. It's not too late to change your mind about that, you know. She's very apprehensive about that part."

Sherlock was about to ask about the allusive 'she', but the sight of a taxi rounding the corner stopped him. He hung up and dialled John's number. And then he did the hardest thing he had ever done. He caused his dearest friend pain. Not good, not at all good. But necessary. He had to protect John. If anyone was ever to even suspect that John knew something, if he didn't show all of the outward signs of grief, if a single subconscious action didn't ring true, he could at some point be in danger. Mycroft would be able to put in place some security, of course, but there was no guarantee that it would be enough. This was the only way to be sure.

"Goodbye John."

Real tears clouding his vision, he dropped his phone to the floor. His life was at their mercy. He didn't know why he trusted them but he did. And it was too late for second thoughts. Without another moment of hesitation, he threw himself into the arms of two people he had never met.

The street below was quiet, busy London commuters hurrying past each other without acknowledging each other, a few of them talking on phones. The routine was broken by a man crying out, and a sickening smack as something hit the pavement outside the hospital. People crowded around, looking at the source of the disturbance. A woman shrieked and people started rushing towards the scene, trying to get a better look, trying to help. More people reached for their phones, calling for help, to tell their friends. Only one person seemed calm, a young man in a sharp suit and square rimmed glasses. He raised his phone to his ear and spoke softly into it.

"Icarus has fallen ma'am, Daedalus has flown. Everything went to plan."


	14. Chapter 14

Stubbornness was one of the few negative qualities John had never been able to justifiably accuse Sherlock of having. Stubbornness required patience, which he certainly didn't possess in abundance. But now he was determined to wait. This wasn't a case of patience or stubbornness, this was a battle of wills, and he was determined to win.

He was in an old and damp warehouse, water dribbling down the bare brick walls onto the uneven concrete floor. It was lit by multiple spotlights, but the room was so vast that it barely made a dent in the depressing gloom. A draft came from somewhere, chilling the air and making him shiver. The surroundings were unimportant; he could tune it all out. His mind was far too occupied for aesthetic observations. He was waiting to meet his mystery helpers, the people who had saved his life. They appeared to know everything about him, from his IQ to his shoe size, and he may not get a lot of time to observe details. He needed to compile a mental database of all he knew already so that he had a firm foundation on which to build.

There were two individuals; a man and a woman. The woman had more authority than the man, though what form this took was unclear. From the note they had left for Molly he knew that they had access to resources and were highly educated. Their intimate knowledge of his life suggested surveillance, but their requirement for secrecy suggested that it was all unofficial. Their accents were native London, but they weren't attached to the government because Mycroft knew nothing, or at least hadn't said anything about them. The amount of trouble they had gone to suggested an emotional attachment, but the fact he knew nothing of them must surely rule this out; how could you have an emotional connection to somebody you've never met?

He was more than sure he could find a way out of the warehouse if he bothered to try, but his mysterious helpers had confirmed that arrangements had been made to move him to a safe place and somebody would meet him and accompany him there. And when that someone came to collect him, he would amplify every personality trait John had ever described as childish or churlish until he was allowed to meet them.

There was a loud and eerie creaking sound as a door opened somewhere, followed by echoing footsteps. Male, patent leather shoes, around 5'8", slight build. Sherlock looked towards the source of the footsteps and was pleased to see that he had been right on all counts. The man was about 32, with dark hair and a pale complexion, and wore a blue suit and square rimmed glasses. Short sighted. No less than 3 mobile phones in various pockets. Outwardly composed. Nails manicured. Office worker. Personal Aide then, which explained the dynamic between him and the mystery woman.

"Mr Holmes" the man said, and Sherlock nodded in response. The assistant stopped about 10 feet away, standing in a convenient shadow to obscure his features, but Sherlock had made enough deductions to satisfy his curiosity about this man; it was the boss Sherlock wanted to see.

"Does your boss not want to see me?" Sherlock asked, and was pleased to see the flicker of uncertainty flicker across the stranger's face, instinctively trying to remember when he had told Sherlock that piece of information. This was instantly replaced with a knowing smile. Sherlock wondered if John would have classed this as 'the face'.

"My  _boss,_ as you say, is indisposed." The younger man smiled and Sherlock had the unpleasant feeling that he was being laughed at.

"Then you had better free up her schedule, hadn't you"

The younger man was definitely laughing at him now, though he made an attempt to hide it, bringing his hand up to his mouth and staring up at the ceiling.

"Oh Mr Holmes, they told me you were intelligent. Don't tell me, you thought I was her office receptionist? No, secretary? I'm going to go with secretary, because of the manicure. Did you not see past that?"

Sherlock was shocked into silence for one of the first times in his life. He wasn't wrong, he was never wrong. The seeds of doubt had been planted in his mind. He knew he was being deceived, but he wasn't sure from which end the deception was coming. He tried to decide on a question, something not-obvious, something that would give him the maximum amount of data.

"Why did you send me to save Irene?" he asked, hoping to catch the stranger off guard. It seemed to have the desired effect, as the man froze and looked uncertain.

"Would you have preferred to let her die?" he answered eventually, but his composure had been dented, his confidence knocked. It was Sherlock's turn to smile.

"And what about Molly. You used her as a source of information due to her obvious emotions towards me; tell me, what is the nature of your emotional attachment to me? Because I'm flattered, really."

There was a clatter from the far side of the room, and a slight movement in the darkness, the rustle of clothing and a quiet cough.

"Enough, Morgan. Sherlock is too good at what he does to be surpassed by even your talents."

Morgan stepped back and relaxed, dissolving into the shadow until he was almost invisible; out of sight and out of mind so as to not disturb the conversation. Sherlock wished he had more time to appreciate the man's acting capabilities, but the show was stolen by the steady approach of a third person from across the room.

The step was slow and steady, hesitant, a slight limp, and punctuated by the click of a wooden walking stick with a metal base. Sherlock peered into the gloom, trying not to squint too obviously. Nervous anticipation bubbled in his stomach, the thrill of the chase.

Myrna was just as nervous. She almost couldn't believe that she was so close to her brother, for the first time in so many years. Tears pricked at her eyes but she held them back, determined to keep her voice as steady as possible when she spoke to him. Her mind was spinning. This was a mistake; Morgan had suggested simply sending a driver, a faceless employee who knew nothing and would give away nothing, but they both knew that Myrna would be unable to pass up the opportunity to see her brother. She was risking everything, but she couldn't help herself. After hearing about James' suicide, she had been overwhelmed by the thought that she could lose her brother at any moment, and the idea of him dying without her ever seeing him again had caused her near physical pain.

She wished she could see inside his mind at this moment, to see what he had deduced about her, to see herself through his observant eyes. To know what he knew about her from the cut of her black trouser suit, what he made of the veil that covered her face, the reason he attributed to her gloved hands. The Adler woman had assumed that she was a war hero, but Sherlock would see past that. He would know. She stopped. She was making a mistake. She couldn't let him see her, work out who she was. There were questions he would ask that she couldn't answer. He was looking at her, taking in all of the details, reading her nervousness in her posture, her apprehension in the grip of her cane, he was going to work it out she knew he was, Sherlock always worked it out.

Finally, after what felt like eons, Sherlock took a step closer and opened his mouth to speak.

"Who are you?" he asked. Myrna felt the breath leave her body. His voice was soft and warm, and for a second she just wanted to confess all and let the pieces fall where they may.

"That is unimportant" she answered, her gravelly voice echoing ominously around the room. "I gather you're going to refuse to leave until you get some answers. I'm frankly amazed you've held out this long." She tried to keep her voice emotionless and detached, to present a cold and blank façade. Sherlock didn't respond, still trying to analyse the data. "You asked about Miss Adler. I sent you to take care of the situation because as infuriating as the woman was, she didn't deserve to die. And as you were already… involved with her, sending you was the simplest solution."

Sherlock still said nothing and Myrna felt a moment of panic. She had been speaking for too long, she had given him too much information.

"You found about me through Irene" Sherlock speculated. Myrna didn't answer, and the two just looked at each other. The tension was broken by Morgan's approach, phone in hand.

"Ma'am, the car is waiting outside to take Mr Holmes to the safe house."

"Thank you, Morgan."

"Not his real name I take it?" Sherlock folded his arms, symbolising that he didn't intend to go anywhere just yet. Myrna smiled and saw her expression mirrored on her assistant's face. "Who are you?" her brother repeated, his question more of a demand than a request for information.

"You assume that I won't use Morgan's real name and then ask me for mine? Use that sizable brain of yours, Sherlock, think before you speak."

"Why side with me and not Moriarty?" Sherlock asked, changing tact.

"The detective or the criminal. Such a difficult decision" Myrna's tone was ice cold and dripping with sarcasm, but she was close to tears. Why had they made her choose? They were so similar, she couldn't help but think that if she hadn't been forced to retreat from the world, they would have been friends. And then James wouldn't have died. He shot himself. That sweet little boy with a permanent smile, a love for stories, and a constant stream of questions about everything had taken his own life.

Morgan looked uneasy, slowly and silently moving closer to her, as though he knew that his proximity was a comfort. Myrna tried desperately to pull herself together. If Morgan could see her discomfort then Sherlock would be able to as well. The taller man took a step closer to her and she tried not to react. She must present this as a business meeting, nothing more. Her father had always told her that her emotions would get the better of her one day, and she refused to prove him right. But presenting a visage if being un-phased was proving to be so difficult. Her guts were being pulled in all directions. Her brother, her baby brother, that adorable little boy, was stood within touching distance. She wanted to hug him, to hold him tight and never let go, but at the same time she was utterly terrified of him finding out who she was. It would be better, so much better, if he continued to believe she was dead. And yet here she was, stood right in front of him. Simultaneously the best and worst decision of her life.

"Human emotions aren't just visible in the face" Sherlock announced a gleeful glint in his eye, taking another step closer to her. "Fiddling with the sleeve of your jacket, squeezing the handle of your cane, knees practically knocking, and with noticeable increase when my proximity to you increases. You have gone to great lengths to protect me and yet can't show me your face. So. You have an emotional connection to me and it's highly likely that I'll recognise you. "

Myrna heard the rustle of Morgan's jacket behind her to her left and took it as the go ahead for their pre-discussed gamble. "Your sister. I knew her. Before she died. She cared for you a great deal and-" she choked back tears and felt the comforting weight of Morgan's hand on her shoulder for a fraction of a second.

She could see Sherlock's mind whirring, processing this confession. Contemplating why everyone he was meeting these days seemed to have a connection to his sister. Calculating the probability that she was lying. Constructing a way to test her claim.

"My sister," he said eventually, "loved films."

"Not as much as she loved books."

"She always stayed up late."

"But was so chipper in a morning."

"The cover of her diary was blue."

"Strange, because her favourite colour was red."

"She liked the apples from lower branches."

"But said the ones from the higher branches were sweeter."

Sherlock smiled and Myrna let out the breath she hadn't realised she was holding, disturbing her veil ever so slightly. Sherlock's eyes fixed on the point of movement and took a step closer; her relief evaporated as quickly as it had appeared.

"My sister, to my memory, did not have friends come round to the house. So how would a friend of hers know what colour the cover of her diary was? And if I never saw you, why hide your face?" his voice was soft and low and dangerous. Myrna just stared at him, too panicked to speak.

"Mr Holmes, I must insist you come away now, arrangements have been made and we have a slim slot to get you to a place of safety, or all of this will have been in vein." Morgan's attempt to save her was valiant, but neither of the Holmes siblings were listening to him. Sherlock's mind was spinning. The literary inspiration behind the plan. The educated accent. The expensive clothes. The emotional attachment. The intimate knowledge. It all added up to something impossible. But it was the only possibility. There was no other reasonable answer to cover all of the evidence. After eliminating the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Myrna had told him that. He reached out and gripped the edge of the veil between his thumb and forefinger.

Myrna grasped his hand, stopping him from removing her last line of defence, but she knew it would do no good. "Sherlock, please." He lifted the material half an inch, and she tightened her grip. "I don't want you to see" she whispered. But her brother was a scientist. He had developed a hypothesis and an experiment to test it, and wouldn't rest until he knew one way or the other. There was no stopping him now.

She closed her eyes and allowed his hand to slip from hers as he slowly raised the material from her face. Her heart was hammering in her chest and she waited for Sherlock to take it in. The mass of scars that had once been smooth skin. The grizzled patches of hair that had once been lustrous curls. He let out a strangled sound, and she opened her eyes, slowly raising her gaze to meet his.

His eyes. Sherlock's eyes. They were almost identical to her own. Blue-grey with flecks of turquoise and green in the middle, framed by long thick lashes. His blinking rate increased, halting the tears that were building. She wasn't quite quick enough and a single drop escaped her left eye. Sherlock raised his hand again, going to brush it away, but he stopped, his fingertip centimetres from her cheek, as though he couldn't bear to touch her.

She turned her face away from him, and looked at Morgan instead. Morgan handed her a handkerchief and scowled at Sherlock, as though blaming the man for upsetting her.

"You died. I saw you" Sherlock whispered eventually, and she could hear him trying but failing to keep the note of accusation from his voice.

"Yes. And half an hour ago John Watson and twenty-six others watched you die, I had no choice, but you made the decision all on your own!" She didn't mean to sound so angry but she couldn't control it.

Sherlock didn't seem to know how to react. He went from distressed to angry to upset to delighted and back again in under thirty seconds. "Explain" he spat eventually. She let out a little sigh. Her brothers were both the same, they processed the information before dealing with their emotions. But in this case the information might help him to properly establish his feelings on the matter, so she relented.

She glanced at Morgan, and nodded in reply to his silent enquiry as to whether she was ok.

"After the car… after the accident-"

"I blew up the car with you inside, you can say it." Sherlock grumbled.

"I wasn't inside the car I was stood next to it do you want me to tell you what happened or not?" Myrna spoke without taking a breath, making her words strained. It was a tactic she had often employed as the elder sister of two boys who, in her words, drove her 'up the wall across the ceiling and down the other side'; the focus required to decipher her words tended to snap them out of their sulk. Sherlock smiled ever so slightly at the memory and allowed her to continue.

"After the accident I was hospitalised, and was in a medically induced coma for several months while doctors established the extent of the damage. When I woke up, I was told that you and others had been informed that I had been killed. The scars you see now were raw, and the impact of them on a sixteen year old face made me look literally demonic. The decision was made for me, I didn't have a choice. When I was well enough, daddy bought me a small apartment and hired a small staff to care for me. I was forbidden from contacting you and after a time it became impossible to do so."

Sherlock remembered the apartment. He and Mycroft had discovered its existence while snooping through their father's office. Mycroft had sneered at the piece of paper, calling it an 'indiscreet indiscretion' before throwing the paper in the fire.

"You could have written an anonymous letter, let me figure it out for myself" Sherlock pouted, very nearly sulking again.

"No" she told him. "I couldn't."

"They couldn't blame you if I found out on my own."

"No, Sherlock, I-" again, tears betrayed her, cutting off her voice.

" _You let me think I killed you_ " her brother growled. "What was more important than saving me from that?" His demand was laced with accusation, and she could feel his eyes burning a hole in her. She lifted her gaze to meet his again.

"I was scared" she admitted quietly, tears streaming unchecked down her cheeks. He raised his eyebrows, silently demanding to know what she was scared of. She looked back down at the floor and took a deep breath, completing her confession in a whisper. "After what I did to you- the papers said… I was scared that you wouldn't forgive me. I'd rather you think I was dead than have you know I was alive and hate me."

Because she knew she would hate him if it were the other way around. She would resent him for putting her through something like that. Grief changes you, and Sherlock's emotional distance from most people meant that when he did form attachments to people he became dependant on them, meaning he would be even more affected. And her constant presence in his life recently while always staying out of sight and keeping him at arm's length must now seem like she was tormenting him. She loved him, she always had. Daddy's anger, Mummy's fretting, she could handle that, she was a Holmes, she had learned to ignore her parents before she learned to walk. Her brothers hating her, their warm smiles turned icy cold, wordlessly berating her for her part in the deceit, she could not handle that. She had nightmares about it.

She refused to look up to see Sherlock's reaction. She could sense him looking at her, silent communication between him and Morgan, and then felt his arms slowly curling around her. A hug. Her brother was giving her a hug. It was such an un-Sherlock reaction, and so unexpected, that the floodgates opened and she sobbed uncontrollably. Tears of sadness or shock or joy; even she couldn't have said which they were at that moment .She wrapped her arms around him, gripping the back of his coat as though she expected him to evaporate at any moment. She didn't know how long they stood there, but eventually her sobs became less violent, and she regained some of her composure. Only then did Sherlock loosen his hold, pulling back to look at her. He used the pads of his thumbs to dry her cheeks, looking at her with a fierce intensity that she didn't want to shy away from, observing everything. They were so alike that even after all this time she felt he must know her better than any other person in the world.

"Myrna." The word sounded foreign on his tongue, and she wondered how long it had been since he had said her name out loud. There was so much she wanted to say, so many things she had always wanted to tell him, and now that she had the opportunity she couldn't think of a single one.

She couldn't repress the niggling doubt in the back of her mind. The idea that perhaps he was making such a show of forgiving her because he wanted the same from John if it was ever safe for him to re-enter the world. He was saying that it was ok because, in his mind, that meant that John would have to say that what he had done today was ok too.

"It isn't easy, Sherlock. What we're doing, it's so hard. Staying away from them. The ones we love. Watching them grieve when the only thing you want to do is tell them you're all right. "

"If you can do it then so can I." Sherlock repeated the philosophy of his youth; if someone else had been doing it then he saw no reason why he shouldn't also. Even in his new baritone voice, the phrase epitomised her brother. He was looking at her, and it took her a moment to recognise the expression. He was  _deducing_ , observing her face and deducing her thoughts. "You think I'm too selfish" he said, his tone a mix of pride at being able to read her and indignation that she should think such a thing of him. She smiled, she couldn't help it; he had known she was alive for ten minutes and already he was inside her head.

"I think you love him. It'll cause you pain to cause him pain. I think you should tell him now. He'll be angry, but once he starts the mourning process-"

"I mourned you. And I'm forgiving you."

"You're not John. You know him better than I, you know how he'll take it."

"He's safer like this."

"Sherlock-"

"No. He worries. About what people think. If he knows he'll worry about overdoing it or underdoing it and it won't be John and they'll know and he'll be in danger."

"We can deal with them. If you don't tell him now-"

"They'll kill him. You waited until Moriarty was dead to tell me."

Myrna felt a surge of panic, unsure of how much to tell Sherlock about James. She looked around for Morgan, to catch his eye and have him reassure her, but he wasn't there. He must have gone to inform the driver that they would be later than expected, or to give them some privacy. Not knowing where her assistant was didn't sit well with her at all.

Sherlock saw the panic but misjudged the reason for it. "Moriarty is dead. He couldn't fake it at that short range." He was trying to soothe her pain but unwittingly made it worse.

"Mores the pity" she whispered. "How much did he tell you? About… about why- about…" she couldn't decide how to end the question. Did Sherlock know that her cowardice was the reason he had been separated from John? That everything that had happened was because of her?

"Moriarty targeted me because of what I did to you, the symbolism was in every action. The explosions, the allusions to my heart. What I don't understand is why."

"James was…" she avoided using the word 'brother', she couldn't make that comparison in front of her actual brother, and it was only a suspicion anyway. There would be time for that later. "I used to babysit him. He lived in the village, his mother was our housekeeper. He was there. At the end of the driveway. When the car- when I died."

"He was avenging your death because he loved you." It wasn't a question, it was a fact. James' fascination with her had bordered on obsession while she was alive, and had only worsened after her death.

"Yes" she whispered.

"Potentially problematic. Should we expect any other similar encounters? Everyone who meets you loves you." He was trying to make a joke, to lighten the mood. If James hadn't been such a sweet little boy, if Myrna hadn't been quite so fond of him, it might have worked. As it was, it just made her feel worse.

"Not everyone, Sherlock."

"Name someone who knows you and dislikes you." Sherlock was trying to be smug. Her resolve softened in spite of herself.

"Adler. It was mutual though. Infuriating woman."

Sherlock thought for a minute, connecting what he now knew with what he knew then and forming the true course of events in his mind. "All of what she did was based on your instructions. Pity. I liked her style."

"Not all. Dominatrix, fully incapable of following instructions. I told her not to tell you she was alive, not to give information to James, not to let you have her phone, not to run off, and I certainly didn't tell her to take her clothes off."

"She liked me so she disliked you." She could see the shadow of the question go through his mind:  _John likes me, does this mean he won't like you?_  And then the flash of horror, the second of realisation that he would never speak to John again, John may never want to speak to him again. John would never know.

"It doesn't work quite like that" Myrna said softly, trying to wordlessly reassure her brother.  _I'm sure me and John would get along famously._

"Your assistant doesn't like me" Sherlock stubbornly pointed out, his pout making her smile.

"Morgan is a little protective over me but he's a good man. He's taken good care of me for several years. Where is he anyway?"

As if on cue (and Myrna smiled, knowing that he probably  _had_  been stood waiting for such a thing) Morgan's distinctive footsteps echoed around the room, and the two Holmes siblings looked up at him expectantly.

"The car is ready to leave when you are, ma'am"

Sherlock nodded and the pair wordlessly agreed that sooner was better than later. After Myrna replaced her veil they left the damp warehouse, blinking in the bright sunlight, and climbed into the back of an anonymous black car.

Sherlock was surprising himself with how well he was taking this. He realised that he probably ought to feel something, anger or maybe pain, but his mind had already dragged him past that. He had missed out on thirty one years with his sister so he didn't plan on wasting any more time by being upset with her. He was in a surreal little bubble, waiting for it to pop, to wake up and discover it was all a dream, but at the same time he knew that this wouldn't happen. She was back. It was like she had never left. She had just been out of sight, the hint of movement in the corner of his eye that was gone when he turned to look at it. Now that he knew she was alive it made perfect sense; he admonished himself for not having thought of it before.

"What are you smiling about?" Myrna teased, and Sherlock grinned.

"Just imagining the look on Mycroft's face when we tell him we're not dead."

Myrna was horror stricken for a moment by the use of the plural, but knew it made perfect sense. Sherlock was almost incapable of keeping secrets; he liked to show off too much, especially when it came to one-upping Mike in an I-know-something-you-don't-know competition. She smiled at Morgan, who was looking at her out of the corner of his eye, still wary and possibly a little jealous of Sherlock. Perhaps she ought to give him a raise. He had proven himself more than capable of handling one Holmes, but having all three in one room was going to be entirely different.

And almost entirely wonderful.


End file.
